Nom de Guerre
by cantfindmypants
Summary: After receiving word of her brother's death at the hands of His Majesty's army, Tabitha McKenna is left with nothing. Desperate not to lose her family's farm, but unwilling to marry in order to keep it, she joins the Continental Army under her brother's name. Side-fic to alyssapiercearrow's By Land or By Sea.
1. Bloodstains

_My Dearest Tabitha,_

_It is my hope that this letter finds you in good health and high hopes. As I write this, our regiment has been surrounded, and there is talk of surrender from our captain and many of the men. I am of the belief that should the order be given, he would be more than happy to remove his breeches and wave them in surrender. Unfortunately, his cowardice during the last round of cannon fire has seen them permanently stained brown! God be with him should he ask to utilize mine instead._

_I am writing to you in this late hour, dear sister, because whether we receive orders to surrender or retreat, it can only end in my death. Should we surrender, those of us who are enlisted will likely be sent to the gallows. However, if retreat is sounded, there will be no escape if we all flee. Someone must stay behind to slow the enemy's advance, and the unfortunate duty has fallen upon myself, amongst others._

_If you are reading this letter, then I regret to inform you that I have gone to meet our Father and His heavenly host. My sweet sister, I have many regrets, most notably the fact that I will be leaving you alone to fend for yourself. I would not have any hardship befall you, but I fear I have little say in the matter now. It is for this reason amongst others that I beg you in my final moments to reconcile with Lieutenant Benjamin Tallmadge. I understand your distaste for the man better than any, but I feel certain that he can protect you. I fear for your safety, Tabby, and would rest peacefully knowing you had a man of his caliber at your side._

_My love, my dearest friend, you have been a sweetness most can ill afford in this life. Know I march to my death with my head held high, a prayer on my lips and your smile in my heart. Pray for us, Tabby. Pray for General Washington. Pray for our freedom. Pray for our men._

_I will watch over you always._

_Aaron_

* * *

Tabitha carefully laid the letter on the table in front of her, as though too harsh a touch could cause it to crumble. She'd known death was a possibility for every man who left home to fight in a war, be it for England, the Colonies, or any other nation that sought to resolve its conflicts with blood. But never had she thought for a moment that it would be her brother's fate when he left home.

"You're certain?" she whispered, a numbness creeping from her fingertips to spread throughout her body. She could still feel the paper in her hands, despite the fact that it sat, untouched, in front of her, and knew she would likely have the feeling for the rest of her life.

"Quite certain, yes." The man sitting across from her, a middle-aged priest with a contrastingly youthful countenance, looked every bit as distressed as she felt. His hands were fisted in the black material of his cassock, his blue eyes downturned and slightly wet. "Tabitha, I am so sorry." Tabitha grasped her knees as she willed herself not to tremble.

"Are you, Father?" Tabitha shot back, ignoring the blatant hurt on his face as she spoke. There had been a time when she saw Father Michael Ahearn as family—not only her father confessor, but as her father in the parental sense as well. But that time was long gone. "He joined Washington for a reason, and it was not because he held the delusion of independence! But you know that, don't you?" She didn't wait for him to respond, and continued, "This should never have happened! And yet, you _let_ it! You allowed the only family I had left to run amok with those dull-swift shites who call themselves soldiers!" She ignored the tears threatening to fall from Michael's eyes as she slumped back in her chair, breaths shallow and pained. "You claimed to want a good life for me, Father," she whispered brokenly. "What is to become of me now? Eric Jennings has had his eye on this house since our father's death, and now that Aaron has gone, and I have no husband to speak of…"

"What about Lieutenant Tallmadge?" Michael asked softly, glancing up from his hands but unable to meet her eye. "If you wrote to him, explained your situation, informed him he has a—"

With flurry of skirts and petticoats, Tabitha leapt to her feet, rage burning in her teary eyes. "I would sooner abase myself and crawl on my belly like a worm than appeal to the sympathies of Benjamin Tallmadge!" she spat, his name practically a curse in her mouth.

"I don't know what you would like me to say," Michael replied, plucking Aaron's letter from the table and glancing through the hasty scrawl and bloodstains. "I am not the only one looking out for your best interests. Which," he added a bit more sharply than he'd intended, "contrary to what you may think, is all I have endeavored to do." Tabitha pursed her lips, glaring. "But if you will not hear it from me, then allow Aaron to convince you." He held out the letter, offering it to her. "He wants you protected, and feels the Lieutenant is well-suited to do so. Those are his final words."

"Do not assume that disregarding my brother's advice in the way of my romantic prospects reflects in the slightest on my opinion of him," Tabitha snapped. "I have always held Aaron's words in the highest esteem. But I am afraid that he knew very little concerning this matter, and if he had, I assure you he would not have suggested this."

Michael's face colored slightly, and he glanced back at the letter in his hands. "I did not expect you to see reason," he said. "Tabitha, you know Aaron was as dear to me as he is to you. And it is for that reason I was unable to stop him once he set his heart on joining Washington's forces. The same way I was unable to stop you from doing anything you were determined to do, regardless of the consequences."

"You sent me away," Tabitha said, voice shaking more than her hands.

"Do not make it sound like I wanted you gone," Michael replied. "You are a daughter to me, as Aaron was a son. Separating the two of you, seeing you leave, it was a pain I would not wish on anyone."

"Don't speak to me of pain!" Her voice was a harsh shriek, reverberating throughout the room as she took a challenging step towards the priest. "I know how it feels to be separated from someone I love! To have them ripped from my arms and _stolen_ from me! You think you know pain, Father? You have no right to even _speak_ the word!"

"Tabitha…"

"I sincerely hope it hurt you," she hissed. "I pray it tore at your heart and left you awake, weeping into the night. I hope you _suffered! _You _cac ar oineach!"_

Michael was silent. Tabitha wasn't sure what she'd expected, if she'd even expected anything when she spoke. Michael had never been a man to take an insult lying down, no matter what the circumstances, and she hadn't thought this to be an exception.

Then she noticed the shaking of his shoulders. His head was bowed and his back curved, and she couldn't see his face, buried as it was in his hands. But the soft gasps were clear enough, no matter how he tried to muffle them.

"Father?" she said hesitantly, softer this time. In all her life, she couldn't ever recall having seen the man weep. Upset, yes. Angry, certainly, on numerous occasions. But this vulnerability, this despair…

"I did," he said finally, and Tabitha felt her heart twist at the broken sound of his voice. "I suffered. I wanted you here. Aaron wanted you here, and he let me know it at every turn." He looked up finally, and his face was wet with tears. "You belonged with your brother, always, from the time you shared a womb. I never should have separated you. Tabitha, I am so _sorry._"

She knew she should still be angry, and on some level, she was. But the worst of her rage had passed, and she felt some of the tension leave her body as he continued.

"When I sent you to Connecticut, I had hoped you would find a decent man to marry—a man you could love as strongly as you hated the men around here." Tabitha's lips twitched briefly in amusement. "You have always been strong, and I know you are every bit as capable as any man in matters of finance and learning. But I come from a family of eight sisters, Tabitha, and all of them were every bit as independent as you. I am familiar with and open to that sort of thinking. And though the world may one day change in your favor, I do not see it happening in your lifetime. If there was another way to go about this, I would not hesitate, but the way things are now, the only way for you to keep this house and your livestock is to marry."

Tears leaked from Tabitha's eyes as she sank back into her chair, feeling utterly spent. "I have no desire to marry, Father," she said weakly. "Not Lieutenant Tallmadge. Not _any_one."

Thoughts spiraled through her mind. Images of Aaron—Aaron smiling, Aaron shouting. Aaron's voice. Light, musical, lilting, yet somber in voicing his farewell. He had been an educated man—no proper schooling to speak of, but as well-versed as any college boy. Self-taught in nearly everything, and always willing to pass his knowledge to his twin sister. Penmanship, marksmanship, sewing, brawling, lying. They had been inseparable since birth, and shared everything from secrets to desserts, toys to clothes, and rooms to beds. She had always thought they were two halves of the same person, and any time one was without the other was time spent feeling sorely incomplete.

"What if Aaron wasn't dead?" she asked softly.

Michael shook his head. "He is dead, Tabitha," he said firmly. "Denying it may bring you a sense of relief, but will only hurt more in the end."

Tabitha shook her head. "But have you seen his body?" she asked. "Has anyone? The man who delivered the letter, did he? Can you tell me for a fact that the blood on this paper is indeed Aaron's?"

"You know I can't."

"Then if I were to find him alive, his estates would be secured?"

Michael sighed. "Yes, that would be correct. But it cannot happen. Aaron is dead."

"If I find him," Tabitha continued as though he hadn't spoken. "I should obviously wish to remain at his side for an extended amount of time. I could request that his earnings be sent directly to you, as proof that he still lives and for safekeeping until I return home."

Michael slowly got to his feet, placing the letter back on the table between them. "And what will you do should you find proof of his death?"

"Then I shall seek out Lieutenant Tallmadge, and attempt to win back his favor."

With a shake of his head, Michael reached out to rest his hands on hers. "_Go n-éirí an bóthar leat, a leanbh,"_ he said in resignation, and Tabitha finally smiled. It was a rare event to hear him speak in their native tongue, especially after his constant reprimand of the twins for refusing to speak English.

"_Go raibh maith agat, a athair."_

Michael rose to his feet and, after a final pained glance at the letter on the table, locked his eyes to Tabitha's. "Be careful, won't you?" he said. "I can't lose both of you."

Tabitha stubbornly refused to acknowledge the tears resurfacing in her eyes. "I promise," she said, voice a bit shakier than she'd intended. She cleared her throat with a small cough, and tried again. "I will be safe, Father. You needn't worry about me."

His smile was slow, but sincere, even if it didn't quite touch his eyes. "I'll show myself out, then." Tabitha found her face mirroring his as Sara held the door open, but let out a long, shaky sigh as soon as he was out of sight.

Sara closed the door behind him, then glanced back at the dark-haired woman seated in the parlor. Her fingers were once again clamped to her knees, trembling violently now, and her head was bowed as though in prayer. Saying nothing, Sara quietly made her way towards the kitchen. She could hear Tabitha's sobs echoing from around the corner, but knew the lady of the house would never forgive her if she'd known Sara had seen her cry. So instead, she busied herself with chopping a pile of vegetables that would be the night's soup. After such distressing news, though, she doubted Tabitha would have much of an appetite.

Not three minutes into slicing the carrots, she heard the sound of a teacup shattering in the other room. An inhuman shriek echoed through the halls, and Sara dropped her knife and ran back towards the parlor.

Tabitha's green eyes were red and puffy, as was the end of her nose. She had a wild look about her, and for a moment, Sara was afraid. She had seen grief do terrible things to the woman before, and was not eager for a repeat. "Miss McKenna...?" she began hesitantly, pausing as she saw the shattered fragments of what had once been a fine tea set surrounding her mistress. "Don't move, mum," she said, stooping to grab the larger pieces. "You'll cut your-"

"_Don't touch it,_" came the hissed reply, and Sara froze. "Fetch the shears, Sara, and meet me in my dressing room. I have a journey to prepare for, and my hair is much too long."

Sara could only nod mutely, eyes bulging slightly as Tabitha walked straight through the china fragments, leaving a small trail of blood dotting her footsteps.

* * *

Irish translations:

Cac ar oineach - scoundral (translates literally to 'shit on honor')  
Go n-éirí an bóthar leat, a leanbh - Good luck on the road, my child  
Go raibh maith agat, a athair - Thank you, Father


	2. Five Graves

_Dearest Father Michael,_

_As you certainly will have heard by now, I have arrived in Connecticut safely with my escort from Baltimore. I was greeted by a company of Dragoons, and am overjoyed to announce that my sweet brother was amongst them! I thank God daily for delivering him safely back to me against all odds. You may not have heard what became of him after the attack. He was indeed captured, interrogated most horrifically, and sent to the gallows with the remainder of his regiment. Many men were already swinging from the rope when they brought him from his cell._

_Good sir, I fear I may swoon simply by recalling this dreadful tale!_

_However, my clever and most resourceful brother managed to fashion a knife of glass and twine, and concealed it on his person before being escorted to the gallows. Using said blade, he was able to cut through the ropes binding his hands, and at the last possible second, disarmed the guard and obtained his pistol!_

_Such a glorious tale, Father! One I beg you remind me to recall in full when next I see you. I shall be most embarrassed if I fail to provide all of Maryland with the heroic account of my dear brother. But what I will share with you now is the good news that my brother has been promoted to second lieutenant in light of his heroism! You will also be pleased to know that he has been assigned to the Connecticut Dragoons, under the command of General Scott and Captain Tallmadge!_

_That being said, Father, I shall remain with the men for an extended period, as I mentioned previously. I am overjoyed and, henceforth, loathe to leave my dear brother's side. But in light of recent events, I shall also endeavor to return myself to the good graces of Captain Tallmadge. As agreed upon, a portion of Aaron's earnings will be sent to you as not only proof of my grand tales, but also for safekeeping. I trust his finances are in good hands._

_I miss you dreadfully, and cannot wait to return home._

_Yours most faithfully,_

_Tabitha_

* * *

To be honest, Tabitha had expected a bit more from the Connecticut Dragoons. Some form of discipline, structure, or a shred of respectability. Instead, upon arrival with the escort, she was greeted by General Scott with a musket ball in his leg, a dead farmer, two dead soldiers, two more bound in the yard, a crying woman, and a very smug-looking Redcoat with a battered face.

"This looks promising," she muttered, dismounting her horse, and tossing her braided hair over her shoulder. "What the hell happened here?"

The man next to her shrugged. "Mutiny, it seems," he growled. "Been lotsa rumors concernin' General Washington. They been sayin' he's dead."

Tabitha snorted derisively. "Great to see the true mettle of the Continental Army," she said. "Washington should fake his death every month so we can weed out the opportunists. At least we know where this lot stands."

The man regarded her with a smirk. "You're a feisty little bugger, ain't ya, boy?"

"That's 'sub-lieutenant'," Tabitha corrected, dark brows furrowed slightly. "And better we find their true standing now than fifty miles from here with their knives in our backs, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wasn't Captain Tallmadge supposed to be here?" she continued. "I don't see him."

The man glanced around briefly. "He ain't the only one missin," he said finally. "Lieutenant Brewster ain't here neither."

Tabitha clicked her tongue as she led her horse toward the ragtag group ahead. "See General Scott for your orders, corporal. Then I want you to help clean up this lot." She nodded in the direction of the two dead mutineers. "Dismissed."

"Hey!" Tabby looked up from her horse as General Scott walked towards them.

"Wait a moment, corporal. General Scott!" she said in greeting as the man approached. "What happened here?"

General Scott didn't seem to be in a conversational mood, however, and spoke as though he hadn't heard Tabitha. "What's your name, soldier?"

Tabitha arched an eyebrow. "Sub-lieutenant Aaron McKenna, sir, of the 4th Regiment Dragoons," she answered. "And this is Corporal James St. Clair. What happened, sir?"

Scott gave an offhanded wave of his hand in the direction of the two men bound in the yard. "Nothing we couldn't handle," he said. "What news of Washington?"

"He sends warm regards," Tabitha said with a half-smile. "The General is unscathed. We have regrouped across the Delaware, and you are to report as soon as you're able."

She inclined her head towards the two prisoners. "What's to be done with them, sir?"

"Hm?" Scott seemed to have forgotten they were there. "Oh, we'll take them with us. They shall face trial and be hanged. Now have your men assist with digging. I plan to be on the road before midday, and don't want any more hold-ups."

Tabitha unconsciously stood up a bit straighter. "Yes, sir. I'll assign my men to a detail. And… sir? If I may speak frankly?"

General Scott nodded curtly. "Make it fast, Lieutenant."

"We are hard-pressed for time. In a situation that required further investigation, perhaps a trial would be prudent." Her face hardened as she caught Newt's eye. "But we know what these worms are. Cowards, both, and there's nothing more to be done by a trial."

There was a brief moment of silence, then General Scott nodded. "I agree. Thank you, Lieutenant. Carry on."

"Yes, sir. Come on, you lot!" she called to the group. "We've got work to do!"

There was movement from the doorway, and Tabitha felt her heart still as Ben emerged from the house, arms laden with blood-soaked cloth. "What's happening here?" he asked.

"Orders from Washington, Captain," she said gruffly.

"He's escaped, then?" The relief in Ben's voice was evident, and Tabitha frowned.

"You sound surprised," she commented. "With your leave, sir, my men and I have work to do."

Ben's attention was suddenly focused elsewhere. "How many graves are you digging?"

"Five, sir."

"Five," Ben echoed, face darkening slightly.

A sudden wave disappointment washed over Tabitha as Ben strode past her, and she knew in that second that Ben had left the boys alive on purpose. 'You idiot,' she thought wryly. One look at the corpse at her feet told her all she needed to know. Ben was still a damn good shot from any range, but was still hesitating.

"Hope you're happy."

A gunshot echoed behind her, and she shook her head. He'd have to desensitize himself eventually, she reasoned. General Scott seemed to be of the same opinion, however, as he passed the pistol to Ben. As her shovel cut through the soil, Tabitha caught the briefest snippets of their conversation, until the wind shifted.

"I'll take the court-martial, sir."

Tabitha's hands stilled as the second gunshot rang out, and she risked a glance over her shoulder. Ben was pale and stricken, and for a moment, looked as though he might vomit. Tabitha felt a similar queasiness, though for a different reason, and it took every last ounce of self-control she had not to clobber Ben with her shovel.

He was willing to risk court-martial to save a boy who had fired on his superior officers. He was willing to risk court-martial. Did the Continental Army mean nothing to him? There was not a single moment in Tabitha's life where she could recall feeling more pride than the day Aaron's sub-lieutenant epaulette was fastened to her uniform coat. The proud thrumming of blood in her veins as her heart pounded with renewed fervor at the thought of having such a role in the fight for freedom. And this… brat… was willing to throw it all away for the sake of 'his word'?

"You would be singing a different tune if you'd fought to be here, Tallmadge," she growled softly. And for the longest time, the only thing she could hear over the sound of her shovel was the blood pounding in her ears.


	3. Tá Brón Orm

_My Dear Sir,_

_I beg you to forgive my untimely response to your previous letter. Know that I have cherished your kind words in these difficult times, and you have been foremost in my prayers._

_This noble war goes on, much as it has for the past year. There is no end in sight, but we keep our faith and know that God protects us and our most righteous cause. I fear I cannot say much, as our movements must be kept under wraps, as it were. However, my sister tells me you were most int'rested in the story of my escape, when by all accounts, I should have been dead._

_Should I live a hundred years, I will never forget it. The smell of death in the air, the unnatural darkness of the cell, and the screams piercing the night—they will remain a part of me 'til the day I die. I had given up hope since sealing what was to be my final letter to Tabitha, and what filled me could only be described as resolution. If I was to die, then surely there was no better time or place!_

_But death was not to be mine that day._

_We were all of us chained in cells—the very cells we'd once held redcoat prisoners in not two hours prior. I often imagined you commenting on the irony, and I admit it brought a smile to my face many a time. When the British came, they selected six to ten of us at random. I knew why they had come, and made it clear that under no terms would I be intimidated in the face of death. A few of the younger lads—some barely upwards of twelve years, Father—seemed eager to accompany them. Poor lads must have thought there would be a trial or some other opportunity waiting for them. I could hear several of them scream on their way to the gallows. God rest their souls._

_Now, to speak of the jailer. I have little to say about him, in neither a positive nor critical light. He was a thick man, but seemed kind at heart. I came to this conclusion by making note of the amount of ale he consumed after he heard the first cry of terror when the younger lads realized they were about to die. And the increasing amount every time the guards came back to the cell to remove more of us. Clearly he was not a drunk, however, because I have seen Bary O'Brien consume thrice the amount and still loose an arrow through a deer's eye._

_By the time the guards returned for the last of us, I had devised a plan. It was as though the Almighty Himself had laid out the pieces for me, and all I had to do was utilize them. A simple shard of glass wrapped with hay and twine became my dagger, and I sank it deep into the jailer's throat without hesitation. I retrieved his sword and pistol, along with his keys. Never will I understand why the man with the keys sits posted directly outside the door._

_The Continental Army, in light of this perceived heroism, has promoted me to the rank of Sub-lieutenant. Under normal circumstances, I would be honored beyond belief, pride be damned! But in a situation such as this, all I can think of are the others who did not find their way out of that living Hell. Pray for them, Father. And please pray that my leadership honors their name._

_Regrettably, I must bring this letter to a close. The noble war goes on, after all. I shall write again soon as I am able, and I eagerly await your reply._

_I remain yours most sincerely,_

_Aaron McKenna_

* * *

A particularly strong gust of wind wove its way through the treeline, scattering the long-dead leaves carpeting the forest floor. In that brief moment, Tabitha found herself missing the warm locks of hair she had chopped off weeks before. At less than a third its original length, the hair tied at the nape of her neck did nothing to shield her from the early winter chill.

But as soon as the thought entered her mind, it passed, and she fixed her eyes on the target in front of her. Rabbits this size were scarce so close to winter and in the army, fresh meat in general was a rarer find. Silently, she nocked an arrow, raising the bow as she drew the fletching back to her ear. She hesitated for barely a second to take aim, and with a slow exhale, loosed the arrow.

It struck true, and the rabbit slumped dead in a pool of its own blood. Tabitha slung the bow over her shoulder, and felt her mouth twitch into an unbidden smile. Two perfect shots that day, and enough meat to supplement her rations for a week.

Aaron would have been proud.

The smile dropped from her lips as quickly as it had come. She wrapped a length of twine around the rabbit's hind legs, and swung the carcass over her shoulder to join its brother. Another gust of wind shook the pines, and Tabitha drew her coat tighter around her body. There would almost certainly be fires burning already—General Scott liked everything to be prepared long before nightfall—but for the moment, Tabitha was content to remain in the forest. With a sigh, and with the treeline still in sight, she slumped against a rather thick oak in hopes it would serve as a barrier of sorts between her and the wind.

She pulled a knife from her boot and began cutting a small ring around the leg of the first rabbit. Skinning an animal came as naturally to her as eating one, but her progress was hindered by the chill settling in her fingertips. There was no doubt in her mind that she could have done a cleaner job next to one of the fires, but masquerading as Aaron was beginning to take its toll.

The physical demands of a soldier were no different than her days on the farm with Aaron. Vainly attempting to lead a horse through mud and muck, a bone-deep chill when the fire wasn't enough to stave off the midnight frost, and the gnawing hunger in the pit of her belly when food was scarce. All things she'd experienced throughout her childhood after their father's untimely death.

No, the physical demands were nothing she couldn't handle. But try as she might, Tabitha couldn't help feeling a dull knot of pain twisting in her gut every time Aaron's name was mentioned. And worse still, the briefest flutter of hope in her heart that he had by some miracle wandered into the encampment—wounded, maybe, but alive. And then she would hear his name repeated—_her_ name, she would remember—and the hope was gone. Dashed into so many pieces, just like the teacup she'd been holding when his final bloodstained letter arrived.

"_Tá brón orm_," she whispered into the fading light, willing her tears not to fall as she ripped the hide from the cottontail.

"Sorry for what?" came a thickly accented voice, far too close for comfort. Tabitha's hand immediately curled around her knife as she leapt to her feet, but found her arm twisted behind her back before she could throw it. "Arrows, eh?" the man continued. "Don' see too many lads with those in the dragoons. Most of 'em use pistols."

Tabitha refused to give the man the pleasure of seeing her struggle. "So ya don't," she snapped, voice thickening in anger. "But I'm no' _most lads_. Now, d'ya mind lettin' go of me arm, or do I need to cut yer hand off?"

Caleb stepped back, smirking. "Irish, are ya then?" he asked as he released her arm. "What's your name?"

"Lieutenant Aaron McKenna," she spat vehemently, forcing her voice into a more level cadence. "Fourth Regiment Dragoons. Now who the fuck are you?"

"You don' look like Fourth Regiment," Caleb noted bluntly. "Or a lieutenant."

"I've been reassigned to the Second. Now, _who_," Tabitha repeated, louder this time. "The _**fuck**_. Are you?"

Caleb smirked. "First Lieutenant Caleb Brewster, at your service," he said with a mock bow. "And if you're the Aaron McKenna I've heard about, then that's not a proper way to address your superiors, _Second_ Lieutenant." Tabitha felt her cheeks burn as she bit back the sharp retort dancing on the tip of her tongue. "So." With a twist of his wrist, Caleb wrenched the feathered shaft from the unskinned cottontail carcass. "Arrows?"

"Conserving ammunition," Tabitha replied stiffly.

"That bad with a rifle, are ya?"

"_No,_" she snapped. "Just hungry. I didn't want the shot scaring off everything else in this bloody forest."

Caleb nudged the rabbit with the toe of his boot. "You can finish skinning these at camp," he said, before setting off towards the treeline. "You took yer damn time out here. And with all the British patrols 'round these parts, d'ya know what that'll look like to General Scott?" Tabitha's eyes widened a fraction, as she slung the rabbits over her shoulder once more.

"It's nothing like that," she replied lowly, trudging along after him. "Just had some things on my mind, is all."

"Wrong answer," Caleb interjected, turning on heel and pressing his finger into Tabitha's sternum. "I get it. Ya need some time away from those little shites who're callin' themselves soldiers. They piss me off too; all the talk about how many lobsterbacks they've killed when they haven't fired so much as three shots between the whole damn lot of 'em." Tabitha met his gaze almost defiantly as he spoke, but did so in silence. "But ya don't say that to anyone. Hell, any of us sayin' we need time to think, alone in the woods where no one will see us… That's gonna get you noticed in all the wrong ways."

Tabitha pushed Caleb's finger away from the spot she was certain would carry a bruise for the next few days, and crossed her arms. "Then what_is_the right answer, _First Lieutenant_?" she asked. "What's my grand story for why I was in the woods for so long?"

Caleb snorted. "I dunno, say ya had the shits or somethin'," he said with a shrug.

Tabitha's mouth hung open slightly as Caleb continued towards the camp, and after a moment of stunned silence, she jogged to catch up with him. "Wait, you treated me to all that drivel just so you could tell me to lie and say I had the shits?" she exclaimed, snatching her arrow from his hand. "How the hell did a nocky boy like you ever get to be a First Lieutenant?!"

"By noticin' the little things," he retorted, grabbing the arrow back from her. "Like how the pretty-boy Second Lieutenant is more pretty than boy, if ya get me."

For a second, Tabitha could have sworn she felt her heart stop, and the wind felt even colder as Caleb walked past her again. "I…" she stuttered, "I don't know what you're talking about!" she called to his retreating form.

"Oh, I think ya do," Caleb replied, and Tabitha could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "I knew something was off 'bout ya sittin all alone in the cold wit yer rabbits. Can't say any of those boys would risk lingerin' out here because they had 'somethin on their mind'."

Tabitha tightened her grip on the rabbits. "If you must know, _Lieutenant_, I recently received word that my brother is dead." The slight tremor in her voice couldn't be concealed. "I don't see how my mourning in private leads you to assume I'm a woman."

Caleb's grin widened. "It doesn't," he replied simply. "But your chest does." When Tabitha didn't reply, he continued, "You cover up well, but d'ya think I don' know tits when I see 'em?" His grin dropped abruptly, and he glanced sidelong at her. "Got any idea what those lobsters will do with a dainty lil thing like you if they find out what you are? There're a lot more ways to hurt a woman than a man."

"Actually, no." Tabitha had suddenly found her voice, and with it came a rush of anger. "There aren't. Is there something they can do to me that cannot be done to you? Can we not both be beaten? Hanged? Shot? Is your skin somehow resistant to fire, while mine isn't? Women aren't the only ones who can be raped, you know. But you needn't worry. Fortunately for you, rape is only a _truly_ deplorable act when it's done to a man."

By the end of her tirade, Tabitha's voice had rose significantly, as had the color in her cheeks. Her knuckles were white, and she felt her fingernails cutting into the flesh of one of the rabbits. She ran a shaky hand across her face, leaving behind a smudge of grime and blood. "Tell me, Lieutenant Brewster," she said after a few gulps of air, "can you name a single feature of mine that could be described as 'dainty'?"

Caleb's expression could only be described as conflicted. Torn between insulted, indignant, concerned and—maybe—a bit entertained. "Not a damn thing," he answered finally, and took a slow step closer to her. "Listen carefully, 'cause I'm not gonna tell ya this twice. I'm going to be watching you. If you're half as good with a pistol as ya are with those arrows, then that'll make ya better than most of the idiots we have out there. But I don't need an untrained and inexperienced girl running around camp with a gun, so until I say you're ready, you're to stick with me."

"And if I don't?" Tabitha asked defiantly.

Caleb let out a short bark of a laugh. "You _really_ aren't in a position to compromise."

Tabitha finally smiled—a slight upturn at one corner of her mouth. "Fair enough," she said.


	4. Assurances

_Caleb,_

_Please know first and foremost that my last report from York City was not a mere stroke of luck. I am confident that information of the same quality can be obtained, but with a slight change in methods. After your dramatic escape in the stolen boat, paranoia has set in amongst the troops stationed here. Also, following a dispute with my father, if I wish to travel outside Setauket, I will need to furnish a more solid explanation. My whereabouts now seem to be of genuine interest to him, and his hostilities against our mutual friend have made it difficult for me to have my laundry hung._

_It is for this very reason, and in an attempt to gain further information and with hopes that she may have eyes and ears where I do not, that I would like you to consider the inclusion of a new agent to our cause. If you have not been previously informed, then allow me to be the first to tell you that trouble has arrived from the south. Many years have passed since we last saw its ilk, and upon its arrival, I expect an influx in liquor theft within the next few weeks._

_For the time being, the signal shall remain the same, and I pray you will keep an open mind. We have been afforded a rare opportunity—one I believe will prove invaluable to us in the long run. Do not be so quick to judge, as I hear you were towards certain lady folk whilst I was away. I can speak on her behalf, but I see no need to do so. Likely, she will be more than willing to do so herself._

* * *

Night was quickly gathering on the horizon by the time Caleb and Tabitha returned to camp. While not dark enough to truly impede her vision, the shadows had lengthened considerably, and the chill in the air was infinitely more pronounced. Despite her best attempts to suppress it, Tabitha felt shivers gathering in her chest, threatening to wrack her limbs at any moment unless she could find a decent-sized fire to warm herself.

As they passed the first row of tents, her outwardly calm façade hadn't faded, but had it not been for the clamor of soldiers bustling about the encampment, she was almost sure the frantic pounding of her heart would have given her away. Caleb was going to turn her in. There was no question in her mind about it. The only question was how the situation could be prevented. Ideas ran through her head, mostly consisting of either drowning Caleb in a barrel of ale or making her escape before he could report to General Scott.

And both were completely out of the question. With the temperatures steadily dropping and the promise of snow in the air, running through unfamiliar terrain in the dark without proper provisions would prove deadly. As would being accused of the murder of a superior officer, provided she could manage to hold him down long enough to get in a killing blow. But there was no way a man like Caleb would go down quietly.

"You can calm the hell down, molly," Caleb said finally, and Tabitha simply glared. "I'm not gonna rat you out, if that's what yer thinkin'."

"And why should I believe that?" she hissed sharply. "Pardon me for making assumptions, but you don't really look the type to accept a woman as a fellow officer in the Continental Army."

Caleb shook his head. "Well, as long as you're here, might as well make the best of it."

Realization dawned on Tabitha as his words sank in. "You're blackmailing me, then, is that it?" she exclaimed. "I do what you say, or else you blab to General Scott?"

"I wouldn't call it blackmail," Caleb replied cheekily. "More like insurance. I wanna know that I can count on you in a tight spot, and this lil' bit of knowledge assures me just that."

Color rose in Tabitha's cheeks, and she felt her jaw clenching in anger. Father Michael had always said she was bound to crack her teeth if she kept it up, but at this point, she didn't care. All she could think of was her overwhelming need to even the playing field. Lying low had been difficult, and the constant fear of arousing suspicion was more stress than she ever anticipated. And adding to it now with the obligation to be Caleb Brewster's indentured servant was more than she felt she could handle. "So what is it you need me to do?" she asked.

Before Caleb could answer, however, there was an irate shout from behind them. "Lieutenant!" Tabitha felt her heart leap into her throat as she whipped around, only to be practically bowled over by General Scott as he strode purposefully towards Caleb. "Where the hell have you been?"

Pulse still pounding in her neck, Tabitha couldn't help noticing the way Caleb had automatically adjusted his shirt upon hearing the General's voice. With that realization came a sudden wave of nostalgia as she remembered always getting caught by Sister Bridget for doing similar things after hiding sweets in her pockets. Years later, the nun had revealed it to be Tabitha's own guilty movements that gave her away every time.

'_Wait a minute,_' she thought, and felt a whole new world of opportunity opening up in front of her as she realized Caleb was hiding something. General Scott rounded on them, and it was in that moment that Caleb shifted his weight, and Tabitha caught the slightest glimpse of the corner of paper sticking out from the waistband of his pants. Without even pausing to think, she immediately slid her foot into Caleb's path as he took a step backwards. "Hey!" she shouted as they collided, effectively startling him as she yanked her leg back and nearly sent them both toppling to the ground. "Watch it!"

"Don't stand so damn close, then," Caleb shot back, giving her a shove in the shoulder for good measure. "What can I do for ya, General?"

Tabitha made a show about picking herself up off the ground and dusting off the soiled knees of her trousers, and stole a quick glance at the paper clutched rather unceremoniously in her hand. A devilish grin spread across her face like wildfire as she realized what it was and she quickly straightened up to stand beside Caleb.

"…gone for over three days without permission, and against my direct orders!" Scott was saying. "Now, I demand to know exactly where it is Captain Tallmadge ordered you to go!"

"General Scott, sir, the blame should not fall on Lieutenant Brewster," Tabitha interrupted hurriedly, and she felt her pulse quickening once again as General Scott's gaze fell on her instead. "Forgive my interruption, sir," she continued, "but this had nothing to do with Captain Tallmadge. I asked Lieutenant Brewster to assist me in a reconnaissance mission."

"This was your doing, McKenna?" Scott asked incredulously.

Tabitha nodded, and could feel Caleb's eyes burning into the back of her head. "Yes, sir," she answered stiffly. "Since the report of my escape was sorely lacking in detail, Lieutenant Brewster wanted to go over it again, to see if I remembered anything new."

"And what does that have to do with him disappearing for three days without permission?"

Tabitha shifted her weight and fixed her gaze on her boots. "I did remember something, sir," she muttered. "I don't know who was speaking, and I'm not sure if there was any truth to it, but one of the guards spoke of 'running the rest down like dogs', and I am of the belief that they meant to strike again before the regiments could regroup." She paused to take a breath, then continued. "Lieutenant Brewster has been scouting for patrols for the past few days. I wanted to be certain of the enemy's position before I made my final report. Unfortunately, I'm not familiar with terrain so far from Baltimore."

Silence met Tabitha's words, as General Scott regarded Caleb suspiciously. "And did you find any patrols, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"Nothin' out there but the trees," Caleb said with a shrug. "I'm thinkin' McKenna here just overheard some loudmouth Private who'd been into the ale."

Tabitha glanced sidelong at Caleb, face a mask of indignation. "Still worth reporting, though," she argued. "If the enemy is planning a surprise attack—"

"All the enemy's attacks're meant to be a surprise, molly," he retorted. "And runnin' us like dogs is all they've been doing so far!"

General Scott sighed impatiently. "I want to read that report before you have it sent out," he said. "I appreciate the caution on your part, McKenna, but next time, I want to be notified before you send out any of my officers. Understood?"

Tabitha nodded. "Yes, sir. My apologies."

"Yer a sneaky little shite, aren't ya?" Caleb muttered out the corner of his mouth, as General Scott ducked back into the tent to their left. "But just so you know, I can handle General Scott."

"Clearly," was Tabitha's smug reply. "But I can do it better. I have his ear, after all."

Caleb frowned slightly. "And how did ya come by that?"

With an offhanded shrug, Tabitha pulled the letter out of her sleeve. "I know how men like him think. All I have to do is suggest he do things I know he's already considered, but is unsure of. Like the summary execution at the farm." A sickening realization was evident on Caleb's face, but she continued before he had the chance to reply. "Now, while I'm inclined to believe 'trouble from the south' is referencing the influx of Regulars moving toward New York for the winter, I find it difficult to believe you would risk so much for information everyone in the colonies already knows." She held up the letter in Caleb's face, and said, "Based on the context, I'm inclined to assume your contact in Setauket is recruiting a new female spy from another colony."

Caleb snatched the letter from Tabitha's outstretched hand. "How did ya get this?!"

"How is not the question. What you should be asking yourself is whether or not you think it would be hard for me to find a woman in a small town like Setauket who recently arrived from a southern colony. News like that would travel fast, and once she's been found, your letter-writer will inevitably come forward to help her. Because from his writing, they sound close. An old friend, perhaps. Or maybe even family. Not a sister, because she wouldn't have risked traveling away from home in wartime unless her true family was elsewhere. And the tone is all wrong for describing an aunt, so I'm inclined to think she's his cousin." She met Caleb's horrified stare with a simpering smile. "Did I get it?"

Her smile faltered slightly as she noticed Caleb's hand inching for his pistol. "How the hell did ya come to know about Setauket?" he growled, and Tabitha slowly held up her hands, palms forward, in an effort to appear non-threatening.

"Relax, Lieutenant," she said slowly. "I told you, I have Scott's ear. I've heard Captain Tallmadge mention something important about Setauket more than a few times, and since the two of you are thicker than thieves, I took a guess. Seems it was correct." When Caleb's hand didn't move from his pistol, she continued, "I'm not threatening anyone. I just want assurances of my own as well. I don't want to work with you just because I have to. And I'm sure you don't want someone whose only loyalty is derived from the fact that she has no other choice. But now that we both have our information, I think now is the time to start operating on a certain degree of trust, wouldn't you agree?"

Caleb's hand fell away from his pistol, and Tabitha released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Fine," Caleb said reluctantly. "But for right now you're coming with me. This is gonna be a pain in the arse to explain to Ben, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna do it alone."


	5. Troublemaker

Ben was distracted.

That alone was rather unusual for him, but given the circumstances, it wasn't exactly unexpected. Piles of parchment adorned his desk, with one pile teetering dangerously close to the candle stub. At this point, it was casting more shadows than light, and Ben was sorely tempted to just let the papers fall into the flame. With a sigh, he ran his hand down the center of his face, willing himself to concentrate on the letter in front of him.

The untidy scrawl and horrible syntax were only a few of the marked similarities between the fifty or so he'd read through earlier that evening. The most glaring resemblance was that of the so-called intelligence itself. "I think I seen a enemy soldier across the river." Or "British patrol ten miles out. They were going the other way." And Ben's personal favorite to date, "Smelled rabbit cooking. Not sure if enemy or ours. Will investigate further." Rubbing his eyes, he stared back down at the letter and, with a sudden wave of exasperation, realized he'd read the same two lines at least five times already.

General Scott hadn't called it punishment. He didn't have to. He could've called it a promotion, and Ben would've seen through it like glass. Spending days on end sifting through all the scouting reports (examples of the "correct methods for gathering intelligence", he'd called it) and cross-referencing them before writing up a final report was nothing short of torture.

A sudden gust of icy wind snapped him out of his stupor, and before he had a chance to see who had opened the tent flap, he found himself scrambling to catch the scattered letters before they fell into the candle flame. There was a second gust, and Ben cursed as the papers scattered once more, read mixing with unread as the night wind extinguished the candle.

"Damn it all," he muttered. "Where did the… Caleb, you arse!" he shouted suddenly, as the man's face was illuminated by the stove coals. A new candle flared to life, and Ben punched Caleb in the shoulder. "You're sorting all these letters for me, you know."

Caleb's grin widened even more, if at all possible. "Speaking of letters, Benny-boy, guess what I have for ya." He held out the crumpled parchment and waved it close to Ben's face.

"More from Abe?" Ben asked, making a swipe for the letter. "_Give_ me that, you…. Thank you."

Caleb snickered, and flopped down on the cot, regarding Ben expectantly. "Well? Go on and read it, then!"

"Like you haven't already?" came the amused reply. Caleb shrugged as he grabbed one of the abandoned reports off Ben's desk, then kicked up his feet as Ben read aloud, "_'Please know first and foremost that my last report from York City was not a mere stroke of luck.'_ Well, I certainly hope not," he added under his breath. "_'I am confident that information of the same quality can be obtained, but with a slight… change… in methods…'_" At this point, Ben's voice faded as he focused more intently on the letter, mouth forming the occasional word in silence as he read. "Caleb," he said after a minute. "Another agent? You knew about this?"

"Aye, Woody mentioned it last I saw 'im," Caleb replied, half focused on the letter in his hand. "Who the hell wrote this drivel?"

Ben glanced over the page and glared at the man so gleefully digging through his things. "Caleb…" he began warningly.

"Fine, Woody introduced me to 'er," he said, slapping the papers back on the desk in favor of snatching the leftover bread. "Well, I mean, when I say 'introduced'… It's Charlotte, our little troublemaker from Virginia."

For a moment, Ben's mouth hung open in disbelief. "_'Her'_?" he repeated, slightly louder. "Your 'troublemaker'?" His fist tightened around the already-crumbled parchment. "Well, this sure looks promising. Caleb, this is a very delicate operation. We can't just bring in people whenever we feel like it. That's the whole _point!_"

"You think I don' know that?" Caleb retorted. "A smaller group has fewer loose tongues. But if they don' have anything to say, they're useless. Ya read what Woody wrote. He can get us what we need. He just needs—"

"—this mysterious troublemaker from Virginia, I know," said Ben. "This," he waved the paper for emphasis, "is not a good idea."

Caleb shrugged. "Kinda knew ya'd say that," he said. "But ya got a few details wrong."

"Such as?"

"Well, fer starters, she's no mystery. She's Woody's cousin. Charlotte Adams. I think ya were away when she visited. Three of her brothers are with the 12th Virginia, including Theodore Adams. _Captain_ Theodore Adams." Ben remained unconvinced, so he continued. "She has papers, Tall-boy. Passes. She can go anywhere in the colonies she likes, and has plenty of reason to. Unlike Woody. And," he said with wave of his hands for dramatic effect, "she can get ta places where Woody couldn't, even if he weren't arguin' with his father. Her aunt's pretty popular. Fancy dinners with officers. Attending plays and parties and all that fancy tripe where none of us could fit in if we tried."

Ben sighed. "So we should just replace Abraham with Miss Adams, then, is that what you're saying?" he said after a moment's silence.

"I wouldn't complain," he replied with a devilish grin. "She's a damn lot easier on the eyes."

"It begins to make sense."

"Aah, that a smile I see?" Caleb teased, and Ben couldn't resist a soft chuckle.

Shaking his head, he sighed, "Caleb Brewster, you would give up the keys to the kingdom if a pretty girl smiled at you."

"So is that approval I'm hearing?" he pressed.

Ben sighed in resignation. "Yes, yes, fine," he said. "I'll meet her. But no more agents without consulting me first, okay?" Caleb actually had the decency to look apologetic for the few seconds it took Ben to realize something was wrong. "Okay?" he repeated, and Caleb grinned sheepishly.

"Gee, I sure wish you'd'a mentioned that little rule a bit sooner," he sighed.

"There is no possible way you recruited another agent in the ten minutes since you came in here and scattered all my papers!" Ben snapped. "How many people, Caleb?"

Caleb held his hands up. "Just the one more, I promise," he said. "And would ya believe me when I say that this one wasn' intentional?"

"Who?"

With a sigh, Caleb grabbed the half-eaten bread loaf and chucked it at the tent flap, grinning slightly at the muffled yelp on the other side. "Get in here, molly!" he called, and Ben barely had time to grab the papers on his desk before another gust of cold air heralded the arrival of a young lieutenant sporting two dead rabbits. "Meet yer new agent, Captain," he said enthusiastically, as the lieutenant inched closer to the fire.

Ben hadn't meant to roll his eyes. It just happened. "_Christ_, Caleb, why would I need a spy in our own camp?" he hissed. "I don't need someone telling me what Scott's doing. The man's an open book!" He stared at the lieutenant for a moment, and frowned. "I know you."

"We met briefly," Tabitha said gruffly, avoiding meeting his eyes for any longer than necessary. "At the farm. With those traitors."

"And speakin of 'those traitors'," Caleb interrupted, and Tabitha's eyes widened. "Scott had a bit of counselin' before shootin' em. This one here," he elbowed Tabitha in the ribs, "can make our General dance."

A flash of anger marred Ben's face for a moment, but it was concealed almost as quickly as it had appeared. "I'll ask again, Caleb," he repeated, voice a bit lower this time. Darker, almost. "Why would I need the services of a man with General Scott under his thumb?" Tabitha glanced sidelong at Caleb as he continued. "Did you ever think of what he could say to _keep_ Scott under his thumb?"

Tabitha swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and spoke, "The fact that he listens to what I say does not make me his pet, Captain. I know what men like him want, and so far as he's concerned, he's making all the decisions himself. With these types of men, you can't tell them what to do. You simply suggest it in a way that sounds appealing." She suddenly found herself growing increasingly uncomfortable under Ben's gaze. "I don't mean to speak out of turn, but I believe Lieutenant Brewster was right to include Miss Adams."

A pregnant silence filled the tent as Ben's eyes locked with Tabitha's. She was aware of Caleb repositioning himself on Ben's cot, and the dripping of tallow as the candle burned low. "I _know_ I know you," he whispered intently. "What's your name, Lieutenant?"

"That's the best part," Caleb interrupted, and both sets of eyes snapped towards him. "How we know for sure the little shite won't fink on us." The room was too warm, and a bead of sweat slid across Tabitha's brow into the dark hair at her temple. "Benny-boy, I'd say we got this one by the balls but, well, that wouldn't work, would it? Meet Second Lieutenant Aaron McKenna, _Lady_ o' War."

Tabitha's pounding heartbeat filled her ears as Caleb's words sank in. She'd been caught. She knew it the instant the name "McKenna" formed silently on Ben's lips. "Tabitha," he breathed. She couldn't reply. Not out of fear or from lack of words, but because there simply was nothing to say.

"You two… know each other?" Whatever Caleb had been expecting, it hadn't been this. Ben's face was stricken, and in all honestly, he looked rather ill. Aaron—or Tabitha, or whatever—didn't look any better off. Seemingly torn between the urge to run or swoon, her face was raw with the same emotions Ben was clearly attempting to rein in.

When it came, Ben's answer was shaky, and his voice thick. "Caleb, do you recall the letters I sent to you last year?"

The sudden realization hit Caleb like a sack of bricks. The two had exchanged letters regularly when the war first began; mostly concerning the fighting, women, and new sights they'd seen across the colonies. A favorite discovery of Ben's had been a Major who had gifted him with several oranges from Georgia—a fruit he'd later claimed he would be willing to eat for the rest of his life, if the opportunity presented itself. But the tone of his letters gradually changed. At first, Caleb attributed the short, clipped nature of Ben's correspondence to the increased workload—what with him being a Dragoon and all. A month later, however, and _the_ letter arrived—long and chatty as before, but this time announcing his engagement to a certain Miss Tabitha Maeve McKenna.

Everything Caleb could have wished to say in response, from the sudden nature of the engagement to his surprise that a woman had been permitted in the encampment in the first place, were all addressed in the letter. Ben had acknowledged the engagement was taking place rather fast, but he'd also spent the whole letter (and several others just like them) describing in awe the beautiful woman he was to wed. Her dark hair, her green eyes, her razor-sharp wit, her unrivaled aim with both musket and arrows… and her uncanny inclination towards violence. He'd described her as being in every way his equal in terms of combat, and Caleb had assumed he was either drunk on ale or infatuation. But he _had_ to have been somehow intoxicated.

Then the letters slowly began to change in tone. Less about her beauty, charm and wit, and more about obstinance, brutality and open hostility. Finally, any mention of her had stopped altogether, until one heartbreaking letter full of blame and self-loathing and general loss arrived, quickly explaining Tabitha had left, and would not return.

"You," he said, staring pointedly at Tabitha. It was almost a question, but not quite. More disbelief than actual inquiry. "_You?_"

Tabitha chose to ignore him. "Ben, please, just let me explain," she began.

"Explain?" Ben's voice had changed. Ripe with anger, and bordering hysterical, his eyes burned as he practically spat the words. "What would you care to _explain_, Tabby?"

"Aaron's dead." There was something about those words that struck her. Something about _saying_ them that fueled her determination once again, and she felt the fear slowly ebb from her chest. "Aaron's dead, and without him, I have nothing," she continued. Stronger. "By taking his place, I can keep my land and belongings, and maybe find a way to avenge him."

Ben probably hadn't intended to sound so outright cruel when he laughed, but he was beyond caring. "Avenge him?" he repeated. "Can we pretend for a moment that I don't already know _exactly_ what you're trying to do? Maybe you could explain _how_ you plan to avenge him. You don't even know how he died!"

That was the last straw for Tabitha. "What I'm 'trying to do'?" she echoed indignantly. "Enlighten me, _Captain_. What is it you think I'm _trying_ to do?"

"Far from me to state the obvious, but you've always had a nasty streak about you," he shot back. "I shouldn't even be surprised to see you here. A war is where you belong! Your brother's death was simply your opportunity!"

Tabitha refused to acknowledge the tears pooling in her eyes, or the fierce pounding of her heart against her ribcage. All she could see was red. Red, and the blue coat of the man in front of her. "What do you want from me, Tallmadge?!" she shrieked. "A bloody apology?! The only thing I regret is not splattering that damn lobsterback's brains across your stupid face! Had I been born a man, _**I**_ would be commanding _you_, and you would know what discipline in the Continental Army truly entails! Not the half-arsed threats from General Scott!" She had taken several steps towards Ben, and the candle flickered dangerously low as he brushed past it.

"Caleb, get out."

Caleb looked up, then frowned as Ben's eyes remained fixed on Tabitha's face. "If yer gonna kill 'er, at least let me help."

"Just go," Ben replied. "I need to talk with her."

With a sigh, Caleb rose from the cot and made his way toward the tent flap, and picked up one of the discarded cottontails. "Come find me when one o' ya're dead. Thanks for the rabbit, molly."

"Don't mention it," she replied curtly, never once breaking eye contact with Ben. Caleb ducked out the flap, and the wintry night air filled the tent once more. The candle flickered once, twice, and died, leaving the two remaining occupants shrouded in darkness.


	6. Defiance

The tension in the room seemed to lessen somewhat as Ben fumbled for another candle in the darkness. The light from the small stove was nearly nonexistent, but Tabitha could just barely make out Ben's silhouette as he sifted through the contents of his desk drawers. "Here," she said finally, pulling a half-burned candle stub from her waist pouch. "This should work."

"Thank you," Ben murmured, and within seconds, the room was flooded with dim, flickering light. "Oh, _here_they are," he grumbled, picking up the small box of candlesticks from beside the cot. "Who put them over here?" He sank down onto the small bed, and motioned for Tabitha to do the same. As she pulled the rickety desk chair up beside him, he pulled one of the yellowing candles from the box. "I wrote you," he said after a brief silence. "After you left, I mean. Twice."

"I know," she replied softly. "But I never read them." Upon seeing Ben's confused expression, her mouth twisted into a wry imitation of a smile. "Would you prefer I had? Would it make our situation any easier?"

"No, I suppose not," he sighed, slumping forward to prop his elbows on his knees. Face resting in his hands, he said, "Why are you really here, then?"

"It's as I told you," Tabitha replied. "Aaron is dead. And without my father, or any brothers, or a… a husband to speak of, I would not have been permitted to keep our farm."

Ben glanced up at her for a moment, then redirected his gaze to the floor. "You could easily have married," he commented. "You mentioned a man named O'Brian who had eyes for you."

"Not after word of my engagement spread throughout the parish," Tabitha replied almost bitterly. "I wrote to Sister Anne and Sister Bridget with the announcement. They were thrilled, obviously, and told everyone they could. And why shouldn't they have?" she added as an afterthought. "I was thrilled too. We both were."

Another silence filled the tent, pierced only by the whistling of the wind outside. Ben remained unmoving, eyes fixed on the earthy floor beneath his boots. The steady rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of life until he spoke; softer this time. "Do you still blame me?" he asked. "For the child, I mean?"

Tabitha's mouth thinned slightly as she took a moment to consider her response. "Had you killed that scout as I requested, he would never have returned to attack," she replied finally. "And if I listened to you in the beginning and returned to Baltimore, I would not have been shot." Ben glanced up uncertainly, and Tabitha shrugged. "What happened was a tragedy, Ben. Nothing more, and no one is to blame."

"Is that an apology, then?" Ben asked.

"I never should have blamed you," she replied simply. "I was angry. So _angry._ But as I said, that is not the reason I'm here." Tabitha sighed heavily. "To be perfectly honest, I had no intention of joining your regiment. I'd planned on joining the 12th Virginia, like your mystery woman's brothers. Requesting a transfer after so traumatizing an event seemed believable enough."

"And the reality?"

Tabitha shrugged. "It's a lot easier to hide around a bunch of blokes who don't know the man whose name I've assumed."

"That, and the 12th has better ale, I hear."

Completely taken off-guard by the sudden joke, Tabitha couldn't help laughing. "Yes, they do," she replied once she caught her breath. "I was sent ahead with some other men to meet General Scott at the farm," she concluded. "I had no idea you'd be with them until right before we arrived. And suggesting a summary execution in lieu of a trial rang so favorably with General Scott that he requested I be permanently transferred to the 2nd Dragoons. I didn't know about any of this until after it was made official."

Ben chewed his lower lip in thought—a trait Tabitha remembered all too well. It was unlikely that he was even aware he was doing it on most occasions, and that—amongst other traits—had been one of the things she found most endearing about him. "How did Caleb come to recruit you?"

"Honestly, I don't think he intended to," she said. "I was skinning one of the rabbits—the same one he just stole—when he found me in the woods. He found out what I am rather fast, and I believe he was going to try and blackmail me into manipulating General Scott for him."

"But you got one over on him," Ben finished matter-of-factly. "Now that he knows you, you do realize you'll never be able to pull the wool over his eyes again?"

"I wouldn't say that," she said with a shrug. "I never really tricked him to begin with." She leaned forward earnestly, and Ben unconsciously found himself mirroring her. "You remember the priest I told you about? The one who raised Aaron and I."

Ben nodded. "Michael Ahearn?"

"Yes, him. There was a game he would play with Aaron and I when we were children. He would keep a handful of sweets in his pockets, and if we could steal one without him noticing, we got to keep it." Tabitha grinned widely. "I had quite the sweet tooth, so I got very good."

Ben shook his head. "A priest who teaches young children to steal?"

"You should have heard the filthy limericks he mixed in with his sermons," she laughed. "He said it was to make sure people were paying attention. His lessons proved very advantageous, though, as I doubt anyone short of a professional would have been able to slip that letter out of Brewster's waistband without him noticing."

"That's probably why he recruited you in the first place."

"When I deduced the contents of the letter, I had no hopes of being 'recruited' into anything." Tabitha leaned back in her chair again, legs crossed. "I was just hoping to make him nervous enough to back off and let me be."

"His mistake," Ben commented dryly. "I'm certain he'll see the error of his ways."

"Doubtful. From what I've seen, once he starts down a path, he tends to just keep going." Tabitha mimed a walking motion with her index and middle finger.

Ben arched an eyebrow. "Maybe you don't know him as well as you think," he said pointedly. "Because if you did, you would know not to assume he'll act in any predictable manner." Tabitha frowned slightly at his tone, but he still spoke as though he hadn't noticed. "And therein lies the problem. _You don't know him_. "

"I don't see how my familiarity with Lieutenant Brewster has anything to do with... well, anything."

"He probably hasn't explained to you how the process works, so allow me. Caleb is my courier. I have an agent—well, two now, it seems—who signal whenever they have information. Caleb brings it back to me, and I forward it to the appropriate recipients."

Tabitha sighed. "An excellent system, but I'd gathered as much already."

"Well then, let me get to the part that seems to have eluded you." Tabitha's frown deepened, and she met his stony gaze with a look of her own. "Caleb is a vital part of our system. Arguably the most important part. And he is useful to me because I can trust him to be unpredictable. He's difficult to track, he knows his way around a boat better than any man I've ever met, and he's no pushover, as you seem to think he is. My man in Setauket—"

"Abraham," Tabitha corrected boldly, face lined with contempt.

"—is useful because I can trust his fidelity and connections in his community." Her interruption was ignored. "In a figurative sense of the word, he's invisible."

Tabitha picked up the letter from the center of the desk, and held it out to Ben. "If trust is the issue here, why would you consider allowing a girl you've never met into a mission as important as this?"

He took the letter from her and tossed it back on the desk. "Because Caleb trusts her. And so does Abraham. _You_, on the other hand," His voice lowered slightly as he stood from the cot. "I've seen you shoot a man in the face without a moment's hesitation. You have no grasp of the concept of mercy, you advise executions without a trial, and your entire purpose is one of self-preservation and revenge."

"This is war," came the stiff reply. "I _hardly_ require your approval in my methodology."

Ben laughed humorlessly. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, _Lieutenant_," he said. "You might have been able to put Caleb on edge, but I promise you now that it will _not _ work on me. And I will not allow a reckless killer with an insatiable thirst for blood to be in _any_ way responsible for the safety of our contacts."

"You know, _Captain_," Tabitha replied, rising to her feet as well. "If I didn't know better, I would assume you're actually angry with me for other reasons."

Her pores seethed defiance. Ben could practically feel it rolling off her in waves as she stood barely an inch away from him, breath hot on his face. "I could list a thousand reasons to be angry with you," he snapped.

"Name one."

There was no passion; none of the fire that had consumed their bodies what felt like an eternity ago. Only rage. Their lips did not meet so much as they collided, and smooth planes of flesh where their hands had once ghosted lovingly across were now marred by contusions and filth and rough cloth. Ben's teeth sank into Tabitha's lip, and she ripped her mouth away before slamming her forehead into his face with a loud crack.

Blood poured from Ben's nose to match the crimson trails bubbling from Tabitha's mouth, and it just _isn't enough_. Her knee collided with his stomach, and he doubled over. Tabitha briefly considered kneeing him in the face too for good measure, but then his hand shot up and curled around her throat. His eyes seemed somewhat darker as he glared up at her from his stooped position, and as he stood, she could clearly see the urge to kill on his face.

"Try it," she managed to splutter out, and she allowed herself to fall backwards, legs pushing up as she went down and almost effortlessly flipping Ben onto his back behind her. She gasped loudly as the air filled her lungs, but then the hands were back. He wasn't finished yet either, it seemed. Her first punch landed on the underside of his jaw, at the same time her knee collided once again with his stomach.

A single drop fell on her face, and with a start, she realized there were tears in his eyes, slowly mingling with the blood on his face. "I loved you," he hissed.

"And I…. you…" she managed in reply, and suddenly his hands were gone. Her sharp gasp was quickly followed by a coughing fit. She rolled onto her side and slowly pushed herself to her knees. Ben's chokehold was replaced instead by a hesitant embrace. "We can't go back to that, can we?" he said.

"No."

They sat in silence for a few moments, breathing heavily, surrounded by destruction and the last flickers of candlelight. "Can you answer me a question?" he asked finally. "Really answer, I mean. None of your usual shit." Tabitha nodded silently. "If the child… if our child had survived… would you still have left?"

Tabitha's pulse quickened, and thinking of the newborn squirming in Sister Bridget's arms—usually such a calming memory—left her feeling slightly ill. "Yes," she whispered, unable to look Ben in the eye. "This life… whatever it is we had planned… it would never have worked for us. I couldn't see it then, but now I realize we would have been miserable."

Ben sighed heavily and slumped against her shoulder. "You fight like a man," he winced finally, and Tabitha shook her head.

"No, I fight like a woman," she replied. "A woman who fights _better_ than a man."

"We'll need someone like that." Tabitha pulled back, and saw the look of resignation on Ben's face. "I don't trust you," he continued. "But you hate the British more than anyone I've encountered, so I suppose I shouldn't call your loyalty into question." For a moment, Ben seemed lost for words as Tabitha stared back expectantly. "I trust your hatred."

Tabitha let out a short bark of a laugh. "Thanks to His Majesty's army looting and burning under the guise of maintaining order, Aaron felt obligated to join the Continental army so he could protect me. Had those lobsters simply let us be, my brother would still be alive!" Her voice was harsh, and she felt the telltale prickle of tears gathering in her eyes. "My hatred is only thing about me you _should_ trust, Captain."


	7. Poison

By the time Tabitha made it back to her tent, most of the blood on her face had dried, and the sharp, stinging pain had subsided to a dull ache. She didn't need a looking-glass to know that her mouth and left brow would be a fine painting of bruises and swelling by the next morning. She winced as she pressed a finger to the split along the curve of her eyebrow. She hadn't expected Ben to have such a hard head. In a literal sense, at least.

Her heart still drummed against her ribcage, and though her cot looked inviting enough and her eyes felt as though they were lined with sandpaper she couldn't bring herself to lie down. Ben's words were still echoing in her ears—particularly the ones concerning the baby. _Their_baby, the one he thought long dead. Or perhaps not dead, because as far as Ben was concerned, the child had never lived.

With luck, that would be enough for him. Ben would forgive her eventually, as he had before on numerous occasions. One of his most glaring flaws, she always thought, but now that same mercy was working in her favor. As a courtesy—and if Ben was anything, it was courteous—she knew he would refrain from encroaching the topic of their failed engagement, and any event that may have come after. She was counting on it. Because as long as he kept his distance, she was safe.

A small smile formed on her lips before she could think, and she immediately winced. Her tongue darted from between her teeth to graze along the broken flesh of her bottom lip as she brought her fingers to press against it.

"Surprised ya got off that easy," Caleb's voice said from behind her, and for the second time in as many hours, Tabitha's arm was twisted behind her back before she had the chance to turn around. This time, however, she didn't bother struggling. Whether it was the simple familiarity or sheer exhaustion, she wasn't sure.

"What do you want, Lieutenant Brewster?" she droned irritably. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I am _not_ interested in any lecture you might want to give me."

She felt rather than heard the low rumble of laughter from his chest. "I'm not here to lecture you, Tabby-cat," he said. "I'm here ta warn you."

Tabitha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Of _what_, exactly?" she said through ground teeth. She felt his hand briefly tighten before her forearm was unceremoniously wrenched back to its original position, and fought not to stumble as Caleb pulled her back to face him.

This was not the same Lieutenant she'd encountered in the forest. The humor was gone from his face, and the laughter in his eyes was replaced by a cold fury Tabitha knew she was the source of. "Hurt him again," he hissed, "even upset him for a fucking second, and I will _destroy_ you." Tabitha felt her blood run cold as Caleb continued. "You didn't see what he was like after you left. Ya left him all kinds of screwed up, and I'll tell ya this right now," he paused for breath, and seemed to be searching for the right words, finally settling for, "You're poison."

"Poison," Tabitha echoed softly.

"Honestly, I don' care what you do with your life," he said. "But when it involves the guy I call my brother, you've got something else comin' to ya."

Tabitha wrenched her arm free of Caleb's grasp. "_You_ didn't see what he was like _before_ I left!" she shot back, eyes flashing. "He was no more suited to be an officer than you are to wear a skirt!"

"You watch it," Caleb warned, paying no mind to the haughty look on Tabitha's face as he took a slow step closer.

"Or what?" Tabitha replied with a casual tilt of her head. "You'll strike me? Go on, then. What makes you think you'll fare any better than Ben did?"

"First off, that's _Captain_ Tallmadge to you," came the sharp retort, "And if it were up to me, I'd have you reported to General Scott for strikin' a superior officer. How_ever_," he added somewhat bitterly, "Ben seems to have other plans for ya."

"Oh, I'll bet he does," Tabitha muttered darkly. "Would you care to elaborate?"

Caleb shrugged. "You're goin' with us to Setauket."

Of all the things she'd been expecting, this hadn't been one of them. "What?"

"Oh, ya deaf now?" Caleb snapped. "Ben wants you there when he meets Charlotte."

"I got that much, thank you." Tabitha's irritation seemed a distant memory as her mouth hung slightly open in surprise. "Did he give a reason?"

"Nope. Just asked me to make sure ya don't go opening that big mouth of yours."

"Who am I likely to tell, _Lieutenant_?" she retorted. "You and _Captain_ Tallmadge have made my situation quite—"

Caleb shook his head as he interrupted, "We're not worried about that. I meant, when you're with us. Charlotte Adams is no fool, and she'd probably figure out what you are the second you open yer mouth." He grinned. "So keep it shut."

"Why bother bringing me, then?"

Caleb gave her a sharp poke to the chest. "You could start practicin' now, if you want," he said. "It's easy. You just shut your mouth." Tabitha glared. "You're in the army now, Tabby-cat. Better get used to followin' orders."

"Yes, sir."

Caleb seemed satisfied with her humble reply. "Good. I'll come and collect you tomorrow night. Stay out of trouble until then."

"The same to you, _sir_," she replied, glaring daggers as he exited her tent.


	8. Liar

The next day seemed to pass much faster than usual, and Tabitha could only attribute it to her frayed nerves. Accompanying Caleb and Ben to Setauket wasn't a worrisome concept, but the prospect of being alone with the two of them—far from the unspoken protection of General Scott—filled her with endless paranoid fantasies. She knew Ben well enough to doubt he would toss her overboard to freeze, but of Caleb, she couldn't be sure. She thought back on Ben's earlier words about Caleb's sheer lack of predictability and scowled.

If either of them thought they'd be able to simply throw her out of a boat, they were in for a surprise, she thought with a huff.

"Good evening, Lieutenant McKenna." Tabitha almost jumped at hearing General Scott's voice, but caught herself with a simple intake of breath and straightened her back almost instinctively.

"Good evening, General," she replied, inclining her head slightly. "Is that Captain Tallmadge I see behind you, sir?"

Scott's eyes flickered to the left briefly, as though to confirm that yes, it was indeed Ben Tallmadge and Caleb Brewster following him. "I assume they told you I was coming," the General said dryly, and Tabitha caught Ben's eye in confusion. The briefest shake of his head told her all she needed to know.

"He did mention it, sir," she said simply, hoping against hope she wouldn't be asked to elaborate.

General Scott continued. "Tallmadge and Brewster both tell me you refuse to drop the issue of what you overheard during your imprisonment," he said. "They say you are 'obsessed' with the possibility of a surprise attack from the enemy."

Something clicked in Tabitha's mind, and she bit back a grin as she answered, "I must admit, I take offense to what the Captain and Lieutenant are insinuating. Lieutenant Brewster was correct in stating that all enemy attacks are intended to take us on unawares, but if there is the smallest chance that one could be prevented, I shall remain 'obsessed' with preventing it until that chance passes." If the impressed look on General Scott's face was anything to go by, Tabitha felt she had sounded more than irritated enough for the occasion.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Lieutenant McKenna," General Scott said. "And I will tell you what I told Captain Tallmadge: This sort of intelligence should not be ignored, and you were right to raise such a commotion about it. Next time something like this happens, I would like to be the first to know."

"Yes sir. My apologies. I thought it best if the Captain were to inform you himself. I didn't want to overstep my bounds."

Caleb snorted. "Oversteppin' your bounds?" he repeated. "You were oversteppin' your bounds when you disobeyed orders to ignore useless information and—"

"_Useless?!_" Tabitha repeated, voice laced with faux indignation.

"Aye, you heard me. Useless."

"_You're_ useless!"

"Lieutenant McKenna!" General Scott snapped. "Control yourself."

Tabitha felt the heat rising in her cheeks. "Sorry, sir," she muttered.

"However." Scott rounded on Caleb and Ben. "I'm inclined to agree with the Lieutenant. He will be reporting directly to me after your scouting mission, and if I hear you ignored any of his input, there _will_ be consequences."

Ben's eyes met Tabitha's for a brief second, as he nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll have Lieutenant McKenna draft his report and present it to you in person immediately upon our return."

"Not like we're gonna _find_ anything to report on—"

"That's enough out of you, Brewster," Scott interjected. "Now get out of here, all of you. Unless I'm mistaken, you have a lot of ground to cover."

"Thank you sir," Tabitha said, and with an offhand wave, the General turned back toward the encampment. "You didn't tell me General Scott would be here," she said once he was out of earshot.

Ben shrugged lightly. "I simply hoped that by informing him of your whereabouts, you would feel less inclined to think we're planning on murdering you once we get you alone."

"I must admit, the thought had crossed my mind." She exhaled softly, risking a small smile at the two men. "Thank you for that."

A corner of Ben's mouth quirked briefly as he brushed past her. "I also wished to see for myself if you were as good a liar as Caleb claimed." Tabitha raised an eyebrow inquisitively, but refrained from asking. "I am both pleased and concerned to find he was not exaggerating."

A twig snapped under his boots as he started down the hill, and Tabitha was left facing Caleb. "Remember," he said lowly. "Not a word around Charlotte Adams."

"Would Miss Adams be frightened to find a woman tasked with her safety?"

Caleb snickered. "Doubt it," he replied. "But Woody might. He's a... flighty fellow. Best not to send him runnin'."

"Well then." She offered a mocking bow, and gestured to her right. "After you, _Lieutenant_."

"You can drop the sauce any time, Tabby-cat," he grumbled in reply.

"Not on your life, sir."


	9. Miss Adams

This chapter is Tabitha's view of By Land or By Sea's Chapter 5. If you haven't read that yet, I suggest you do so! This chapter will not make much sense otherwise.

* * *

Tabitha had lost sight of the shore mere minutes after the small boat had launched into the sound. Occasionally, she could make out the dim outline of a conifer in the distance, but nothing more in the dark. As the hours passed, she knew a lantern would be pointless, but wished for one all the same. Ben seemed more than confident in Caleb's skill with a boat, however, so she gradually forced herself to relax, allowing her fingertips to skim the surface of the water as the two men adjusted the sail for the umpteenth time.

"I got it, Tall-boy," Caleb was saying. "Just leave the work to the master, eh?"

Though the dark made the act of rolling his eyes useless, the annoyance was still clear in Ben's voice. "Well, if _the Master_ didn't continuously complain about having to do all the work himself…"

"With you fumbling about here, I might as well be," Caleb replied. "There, got it. See how easy that was?"

Ben snorted. "I'll remember this the next time you complain, Caleb."

"You do that." The breeze had picked up slightly, and Tabitha shrugged her coat a bit higher on her shoulders, flipping the collar to shield her neck from the chill. "Not cold, are ya, Tabby-cat?" Caleb asked with a smirk, and Tabitha frowned.

"I'm not overly fond of boats," she admitted stiffly. "Why must your contacts be on an _island?_"

Caleb sounded far too amused for Tabitha's liking. "You get seasick?"

"Just keep your eyes on the moon," Ben offered helpfully, and Tabitha glanced skywards.

The moon was mostly shadow, but bright enough to leave an afterglow as she glanced back toward the captain. "What is it you want me to look for in Miss Adams?" she asked. "You said outright that you don't trust me-"

"-and I don't."

"Nor should you," Tabitha continued. "Why, then, would you want _my_ opinion of your newest agent?"

Ben shrugged, and rested his arm on the side of the boat. "You harbor an... inherently nasty hatred of the British," he said slowly. "And that means if you find a glaring flaw in Miss Adams, you will say so. Because remaining silent only helps the enemy."

"Why not Lieutenant Brewster, then?" she countered.

"I'm not implying that Caleb doesn't know how to choose an agent," Ben said. "Only that neither of us are quite as well versed in the subtleties of women."

Caleb laughed at Ben's words. "Subtleties're probably the only aspect of a woman that I don't care to be 'versed' in," he cackled.

"How well d'ya swim, Lieutenant Brewster?" Tabitha asked sharply, voice unconsciously thickening in a heavier lilt. "Because I believe ya may have need t'do so in the near future."

"That a threat?" Caleb replied, grin widening. "Bet I pull you in with me if you try."

"Keep talkin', ya gobshite, and we'll find out."

Ben slapped a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes briefly before getting to his feet. "Will you two keep your voices down? I can see the dock already."

With a muffled curse, Caleb got to his feet and reached to the halyard, and Tabitha once again fixed her eyes on the moon as the boat began to rock. In her peripheral vision, she saw the mainsail fluttering as it was lowered down the mast. The boat gave an almighty lurch as he grasped the rudder, and she let out a low groan as Ben staggered to his feet as well.

"Would ya sit _down_, Benny-boy?" Caleb said, exasperated. "You're the only person I know who insists on standing in a boat while it's still sailin'! Ya shite!"

"There's no call for that kind of language, Caleb, we're to be in mixed compan—"

"Sit down, you're tipping me in!" Tabitha all but shrieked, knuckles white as she clutched the mast.

"Daft bastard!" There was another lurch, and Ben grasped the rigging for a semblance of balance. "Don't pull the—"

"Well stop swaying, then!"

Tabitha groaned as the boat slammed into the dock with a crunch, and she silently prayed that if the boat was indeed sinking, Ben would go down with it.

"Abe!" Caleb called, and Tabitha briefly wondered how they hadn't been surrounded by Redcoats. "Help me tie the boat, will ya?"

A man—Abe, she assumed—grabbed the sodden rope Caleb had tossed onto the planks above them as Ben fumbled for the ladder.

"Benny boy, I swear if you don't get your arse up that ladder," Caleb began threateningly.

"You're moving too much! Caleb, I thought you were a proper boatman!" Tabitha bit her lip to stifle a giggle as the two continued to bicker. There were more footsteps on the deck above them, and a hand was extended slightly over the edge of the planks.

Though she couldn't see much farther past her companions, and though she hadn't an inkling of an idea as to what Abraham Woodhull or Charlotte Adams looked like, the small, oval-shaped fingertips glowing in the moonlight were certainly not those of a farmer—or of any man Tabitha had ever met. Ben clearly hadn't noticed this, however, as he grasped the hand rather unceremoniously and hauled himself onto the deck, attention still half-focused on a half-arsed insult about Caleb's nautical skills.

He promptly fell silent, however, and Tabitha smirked as she realized Ben must have discovered his mistake. Abe seemed to have noticed as well, as his voice broke the echoing silence. "Captain Benjamin Tallmadge, may I present my cousin, Miss Charlotte Cornelia Adams."

There might have been a whisper, but it was quickly followed by the scuff of boots on the planks, and Ben Tallmadge's voice was all charm. "Miss Adams," he said.

"Captain," a musical voice responded, and Tabitha rolled her eyes, wondering briefly if her impression of the (clearly lovely) Miss Adams would be needed after all.

Caleb, meanwhile, had had more than enough of clinging to the ladder. "If you move your college boy arse, we can all stand on the dock," he snapped.

Tabitha made a mental note to share the next brace of cottontails she came by with the boatman. Provided he didn't irritate her again.

There was a light giggle from above them, and Caleb hoisted himself onto the dock as Ben began to profusely apologize on their behalf. "Especially this one," he concluded, as Caleb dug an apple from the depths of his coat pockets.

"Caleb? Oh, he's all right," Charlotte replied warmly, and Tabitha peered over the deck just in time to see Ben shoot him a glare.

As she rose to her feet, she became aware of not one, but two sets of eyes fixed on her, both with various degrees of curiosity. Abe truly did deserve Caleb's description of a 'flighty fellow'. The man made so many small, jerky movements out of sheer nervousness that Tabitha began to feel seasick again. Clearly Caleb hadn't mentioned there would be a third member in their party.

Charlotte, however…

"This is, uh, Second Lieutenant Aaron McKenna," Ben said hesitantly, and Tabitha bowed as she had seen Aaron do numerous times before. Charlotte lowered herself in a gentle pool of silk and grace, and Tabitha briefly allowed her eyes to absorb as many details as possible. The finery, the poise, and the general air about her clearly marked her as a lady of high social standing. Or, at least, a higher standing than Tabitha was accustomed to. But there was definitely something else there.

She glanced away as Charlotte straightened, and Abe extended an arm to Tabitha. Without hesitation, she accepted it, and nodded at the man's muttered greeting. For the quickest second, her eyes locked with his, and she saw the faintest hint of a challenge reflected back at her. Not a total coward, then, she realized. A nervous wreck, certainly, but with more substance than Caleb seemed to give him credit for.

Ben wasted no time in striking up conversation with Charlotte—relevant conversation, to his credit—asking about everything from her home to her family to social circles. Tabitha did not once look away from the other woman, eyes fixed firmly on her porcelain face. There was an eagerness in her posture, and whether or not that had anything to do with Ben's over-the-top charm was debatable. Her words were clear, prim and precise—a well-spoken lady to be sure.

"Unfortunately, I have no experience with poisons," she was saying, and Tabitha's brow furrowed.

Ben and Caleb laughed, and Tabitha took the cover of their voices as an opportunity to mutter a brief, "_An bhfuil sí dáiríre?_" out the corner of her mouth. Caleb shot her a look and shook his head, and she fell silent once again.

"Well," Ben continued, "I certainly wouldn't want to put a lady in jeopardy, but it seems you've established a possible method for leaving letters and meeting agents as information arises that seems quite sound."

Tabitha was rapt with attention. Ben and Caleb hadn't mentioned anything about communication to her, and upon reflection, had probably never intended to.

"The bell and the anchor are inside that box. I would hang the bell if a message were in that tree with the very large vacant cavern, and the anchor if I want to meet."

Abraham seemed quite a bit less impressed with this strategy as he said for what was probably the hundredth time, "I would like to avoid meetings in favor of drops if possible, in Charlotte's case."

Tabitha felt a brief twinge of anger. Charlotte seemed more than capable of speaking on her own behalf; who did Abraham Woodhull think he was?

"We of course wouldn't want to…offend or anger your intended by placing you in any danger," Ben said, and Tabitha was snapped out of her momentary reverie.

"_Mo dhia_," she groaned under her breath, and this time, Caleb caught her eye with a smirk, which she returned begrudgingly.

Charlotte seemed just as thrown by this statement as the rest of the group, and Ben's over-eager reply of "You don't have an intended?" sorely tried Tabitha's determination not to laugh.

She clearly wasn't the only one, as the silence was repeatedly _almost_ broken by Caleb's equally assiduous efforts to keep quiet. Charlotte was explaining her detailed and clearly meticulously thought-out plan for their lines of communication, and the more she spoke, the more effort Ben had to exert on hearing her words and not simply the sound of her voice.

Tabitha gave Caleb a discreet nudge, nodding towards the hills in the distance. Caleb seemed to get the message, as did Ben when Caleb clapped a hand rather unceremoniously on the captain's shoulder.

"Miss Adams," Ben said gently, stepping closer to Charlotte in a way reminiscent to Tabitha of Father Michael approaching a new horse. "It's been my….pleasure, to meet you. You are a welcome addition to our efforts. We would, if you wouldn't mind, like to speak with Abraham in private."

Charlotte's curtsey was, as expected, elegant and graceful. "It's been my pleasure to meet you both," she said; more to Ben, it seemed, but Tabitha nodded politely nonetheless.

"Do take care of yourself," Ben called, and Tabitha's hand flew to her forehead in exasperation.

Charlotte's melodious reply of "Yes, Captain," seemed to echo momentarily, and Ben looked somewhat dazed as she hurried up the hill.

"How she moves in that number of skirts…" Tabitha began, but trailed off as she noticed Ben's eyes fixed on the moonlit figure at the crest of the hill, skirts billowing about her in a way that seemed erethral in its own right. She didn't make a second attempt.

"Caleb didn't mention you'd be joining us tonight, Mr. McKenna" Abe said, turning his attention to Tabitha.

"Likely 'cause he didn' know either," she replied allowing her accent to slip slightly as her voice deepened. "I have a… ah, a particular skill set I am honored ta utilize fer Capt'n Tallmadge."

"And what skill set would that be?" Abe asked, voice layered with suspicion that clearly came as natural to him as breathing.

Tabitha just smiled, and her smile was full of teeth. "I would be a terrible spy if I spilled all me secrets t'ya on our firs' meetin, Mr. Woodhull," she said simply. "Canna go havin' one man with all the keys, now can we?"

Abe exchanged glances with Caleb, who shrugged. "Real piece of work, isn' he?" Caleb said. "But he's a sharp little shite, and pretty useful in a tight spot."

"And he knows less about you than you do about him," Ben added finally, and Tabitha cocked her head in surprise. "Apart from your name, he knows nothing pertaining to you, or our arrangement. And for the time being, it will stay that way."

For a moment, Abe looked ready to argue. To yell, to say _some_thing, but instead he nodded, and all he said was a muttered, "Can't have one man with all the keys."

* * *

Google!Translation of Tabby's gratuitous Gaelic:  
An bhfuil sí dáiríre?...Is she serious?  
Mo dhia...Oh my god.


	10. Smitten

The light in the distant window had long since faded from view, but Ben's eyes remained fixed on the horizon as they sailed into the night. The silence was getting uncomfortable, and Tabitha slowly and unsteadily rose to her feet, clutching the mast for support as she cleared her throat. Ben glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

"_Miss_ Adams," Tabitha said with a mock flourish and a bow, before descending into peals of laughter. Ben's face flushed an almost comical shade of red as Caleb joined in, bumping the rudder slightly and forcing Tabitha to either sit or take an untimely plunge.

"Shut up, both of you," Ben muttered.

"Yes, Captain!" she replied in a cheery falsetto, matching Charlotte's intonations with an almost uncomfortable accuracy. Caleb was making a concerned effort to stifle his laughter, but wasn't doing a very good job of it. Tabitha's giggles ended in a shriek, however, as a large handful of icy water caught her in the face. After a moment of shocked spluttering, she finally regained control of her voice. "_That_ was immature!"

Ben scoffed. "Because you're the essence of maturity," he said, tossing her a blanket nonetheless, which she accepted a bit too eagerly. The wool was rough against her face as she wrung a few locks of sodden black hair in the cloth, but it was warm, and she left the blanket draped over her head like a mantilla as a breeze ghosted over the water.

"You're making a mistake," she said finally, gaze landing somewhere by her leg as she loosened her hair with her fingertips. "With Miss Adams, I mean. Getting her involved."

Ben's frown had deepened at the mention of Charlotte, but Caleb was already speaking by the time he'd opened his mouth. "Perhaps we made a mistake gettin' _you_ involved," the boatman retorted, and Tabitha snorted.

"Yes, because you gave me _so_ many opportunities to reconsider," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "She's not suitable for this sort of... undertaking. It would be best to leave her to her finery. I promise you, a woman such as she has no business being brought into these affairs."

"And yet, here _you_ are," Caleb replied.

"And yet, here I am," she agreed. "Can you honestly see no difference between myself and Charlotte Adams?"

Caleb made a sound in the back of his throat that, to Tabitha, came across as a toss-up between amusement and exasperation. "Goin' beyond looks, for starters," he began, "Yeah, I do. An' I'll tell you right now, Charlotte's a whole lot more useful that you've been."

"She's done nothing but propose an information drop signal!" Tabitha shot back. "Planning drops, writing letters, avoiding meets? Mr. Woodhull may think he's protecting her, but she is just as guilty as he is, and just as likely to swing for it. I know it, and so do the two of you." She paused for breath, and glanced at each man in turn. "What do you think she'll do when she arrives at the same conclusion? You think she'll stick around? Like you said, _Lieutenant_, Miss Adams is no fool. When the reality of her situation truly sinks in, do you think she'll wait around for the Redcoats to find her? She will run. She will go back to Virginia, and she would be wise to do so."

"You don't know her," Caleb said.

"An' neither d'you!" Tabitha's breath clouded in front of her as she continued, growing louder with every word. "How long since ye've seen 'er last? And before tha'? Have ya e'er set foot'n Virginia, _Lieutenant?_"

By this point, Ben had had more than his fill of the two lieutenants' bickering. "That's enough from the both of you," he snapped. "I think it's safe to assume that none of us have the pleasure of knowing Miss Adams as well as we would like. Now, bearing that in mind, perhaps it would be prudent for us to withhold judgment until we have a clearer idea of her true character."

Tabitha's mouth hung open as she rounded on Ben, who simply gave her what she had come to call The Look; head cocked to the side, face tilted slightly downwards, one eyebrow raised, and eyes locked unblinkingly with hers. "What the fuck did ya bring me along fer, then?" she exclaimed. "Ya asked me t' tell ya if I saw a '_glaring flaw'_ in Miss Adams. An' here I am, tellin' ya she's not suited fer this sort of work. Why ask if ye're just gonna disregard what I have ta say?"

"I had assumed she would be a different sort of woman," Ben replied. "Had I known she would be as open and forthcoming as—"

"Don' patronize me, Tallmadge!" Tabitha slammed her hand against the mast. "Ya took one look inta those pretty brown eyes, and ya ne'er once looked away. She smiles an' curtseys and calls ya _'Captain'!_ Don' try an' tell me she's open an' forthcoming. Unlike you, I was watchin', an' there is_nothin'_ open or simple abou' that woman. An if ya hadn' been so smitten, ye'd've noticed."

Whether Ben was at a loss for words or simply choosing not to reply, Tabitha wasn't sure. But as she sank back down into the bottom of the boat, Caleb said bluntly, "You're biased."

She tugged the blanket from her head. Her dark hair was a mess beyond fixing for the time being, but at least it was dry. "How so?" she muttered, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders instead.

"Well, if you're jealous of another woman getting Benny's attention, jumpin' to conclusions about her isn' the way to go. Just my opinion..." He trailed off with a shrug.

"Is that really what this is about?" Tabitha asked incredulously. "You think I still harbor feelings for him?" She jerked her head in Ben's direction, and he found himself suddenly and inexplicably fascinated by a small stick floating on the surface of the water.

"Not quite," Caleb replied. "Your brother dies, and ya just _happen_ to show up in our regiment to be close to the only man who can help ya keep your family's land." Ben glanced up briefly from the floating stick, then his eyes flickered back, back stiff. "Bit convenient, wouldn't ya say?"

"I don't require his help to keep my farm." Tabitha's voice was much lighter than even she had expected, and for a moment, she felt like laughing. "The deed is in Aaron's name, and I walk in his shoes. It would be a simple matter to sign the deed to myself, or to Father Michael for safeguarding. So long as I remain unmarried, the property is mine. And should that be contested for any reason, the farm would instead be incorporated into the church, where Father Michael would allow me to live out my days." Her eyes locked with Caleb's. "Alone, and in peace."

"Alright," Caleb said after a pause. "Then what're you doin' here? Sign the farm over to yourself and be done with it."

"I still need money, _Lieutenant_," Tabitha replied, eyes locking once again on the moon as she felt a wave of queasiness pass over her. "Besides, it's like Tallmadge says: A war is where I belong."

"Couldn't agree with him more."

Ben continued to stare out across the water, and Tabitha knew he was no longer listening. She was no navigator, but she was fairly certain the distant shoreline his eyes had locked on was where the last flicker of candlelight from Miss Adams' window had vanished into the night. The faintest streaks of pink were beginning to show on the eastern horizon, and with a sigh of defeat, she pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders and pulled her knees to her chest. If she was lucky, she could maybe squeeze in an hour or two of sleep. If she was luckier, she would wake up still in the boat, and not in the water.


	11. Requiem

An icy gust of wind curled itself around Tabitha's legs and midsection as she mounted the hill, not three steps behind Caleb and Ben. The two had been chatting on and off since late morning, but the chill in the air seemed to have frozen their conversation as much as it had Tabitha's fingertips. Dark clouds were gathered in the distance—almost black against the already grey sky—and she silently prayed they weren't bringing snow. Regardless of how much she may have deserved it, she hadn't been properly warm since Ben splashed her face the night before.'

Her dark hair whipped about her face as she turned to glance over her shoulder. Nothing but trees and hills and dead grass as far as the eye could see. No birds sang in the mid-morning chill, and the howling wind rendered the party's footsteps virtually silent. Ideal weather in Tabitha's eyes on almost any day; but now, for reasons that eluded her, the sight of the landscape did little to calm her nerves. If anything, it was exacerbating them.

"Are we very far from camp?" she called to Caleb, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of her breeches. "Those clouds look dark. Perhaps we should find shelter?"

Caleb snorted. "Not far now, molly," he said simply.

Tabitha frowned and glanced back over her shoulder. Something about the landscape was setting her hair on end, and it wasn't the chill. With the wind blowing as it was, discerning the rustling brush as being the result of nature, man, or beast was near impossible.

The three paused briefly at the top of the hill, and Tabitha took the moment to do a quick survey of the surrounding scenery. There were a few dense copses of trees dotting the landscape, and a small creek—long since frozen over—winding through the frosted grass. All in all, not many places for an enemy to hide, unless he came in ridiculously small numbers. _Like us,_ she thought humorlessly. She had half-turned on her heel to follow Caleb and Ben once more when she saw it. A flash of red out the corner of her eye.

"Brewster!" she hissed, the urgency in her voice grabbing both men's attention. "In the trees, by the water. There's a man hiding."

Caleb squinted as he followed Tabitha's outstretched finger. For a moment, the land was still. But then the bushes rustled, and for the briefest of moments, a boot and a corner of red peeked out from the scrub. "Well, would you take a look at that?"

Tabitha glanced sidelong at Ben, knowing the call was his, but doubtful as to whether or not it would be a decision she would agree with. Ben's eyes locked with hers momentarily, and he sighed. "Try not to kill him, Tabitha," he said in resignation.

Interpreting his words as her permission, Tabitha drew her pistol and took off running down the hill, never slowing even as her gait altered between leaps and stumbles and slews as she haphazardly dodged the rocks and fallen branches littering her path. She let her gathered momentum carry her into a sprint as she reached the bottom of the slope, and was distantly aware of the fleet footfalls of the men behind her. Directly ahead, not thirty yards away, the scout—definitely British—had seen her, and made a hasty grab for his pistol.

Tabitha was faster. There was a resounding _crakk_ as her pistol discharged, briefly obscuring her vision in a haze of smoke. A shrill cry pierced the frigid air, and she didn't even bother to slow her pace—opting instead to slide along the frozen grass, directly into the young man whose torn breeches were rapidly adopting a crimson hue to rival his coat. Both lay sprawled on their backs for a second, the soldier's teeth clamped sharply onto his bottom lip in a desperate attempt to stifle his whimpers. Tabitha quickly turned her hips, legs following moments after as she swung herself back to standing. Looming over the wounded man, she was quietly stunned at how young he looked. Likely around fourteen, she supposed, but possibly older. Pain had a way of making the biggest men look young and fearful.

"Christ, molly, someone light your arse on fire?"

"You're welcome," she replied stiffly, then coughed, feeling the cold in her lungs as she holstered her pistol.

Ben shouldered past her with a level glare, and for a moment, Tabitha thought she could see the pulse pounding in his throat. He knelt next to the young redcoat, whispering brief reassurances that, to Tabitha, sounded better suited for a horse than a boy. But it attained the desired effect, and the boy stopped struggling. "What's your name?" he asked calmly.

The boy winced as he struggled to sit up, perhaps to save one shred of dignity in the eyes of the enemy. "S-Sutton," he stammered, then gulped and tried again. "Private Sutton. And that's my brother, Willie." He nodded in the direction of the brush where another boy lay, half-obscured by the sticks and leaves piled over his shivering form.

"My name is Captain Tallmadge," Ben said in that damnably soothing tone. "These are Lieutenants Brewster and McKenna. May I ask what you and Willie are doing so far from your regiment, Private?"

Tabitha scoffed. "Should be obvious."

Ben didn't even bother turning around. "If 'Private McKenna' sounds better to you, than by all means, keep talking." Tabitha scowled, and Ben continued. "Where is your regiment, Private Sutton?"

"I-I don't know, Captain," Sutton replied, voice punctuated by small, breathy gasps. "We was out on patrol. Nothin' too important for lads like us. But when we came back…"

"Yes?" Caleb prompted, and Sutton shot him an exasperated look.

"Well, they was gone, wasn't they?" he shot back. "Up an' left us. An' Willie's hurt his leg. Can't walk a step."

Tabitha approached the brush as quietly as she could. Willie had certainly hurt his leg, she realized, as she nudged a few of the sticks and a sturdy-looking branch aside with the toe of her boot. Broken in multiple places, by the looks of it, but it was the pallor of his skin and the blue tinge to his lips and hands that were a more immediate cause for concern. The rise and fall of the boy's chest was barely discernable, and it was with a brief pang to her gut that Tabitha realized he was dying. The blue on his lips wasn't the only color out of place on Willie, however, and Tabitha's dark brows furrowed as she brushed a finger against the cloth of his coat.

"How long have you and Willie been out here?" Ben asked.

Sutton glanced briefly at his bleeding leg, then back at Ben. "Night before last," he muttered.

"_Béal ónna_," Tabitha said roughly, twigs snapping beneath her boots as she made to rejoin the group. "You can't get frostbite like that after two nights, even in this chill!"

"'M not lying!" Sutton exclaimed, struggling to face Tabitha despite the pain shooting through his leg. "An' you stay away from Willie, ya hear?"

"Why?" she retorted, straightening to her full, towering height as she approached the young soldier, glowering down at him. "Afraid I might notice something… off?"

Caleb clapped a hand to Ben's shoulder before moving to join Tabitha. "What's off, molly?" he muttered, and Tabitha pointed at the brush.

Sutton's face paled visibly, and this time, it wasn't from the pain. "I said, keep your bloody hands offa him!" he shouted, staining the grass with smears of blood as he struggled to reach the other man. "He's hurt! Please! I'm taking care a' him!"

Ben grasped Sutton's arms as Tabitha kept his leg still. Caleb winced as he peered into the bushes. "Oh, he don't look too good," he said, half-turning towards Ben. "Leg's all skewy, and he looks frozen through."

"Notice anything else?" Tabitha asked loudly, redoubling her efforts in keeping Sutton still as he gave a sudden thrash against Ben's grip.

Caleb brushed more of the leaves from Willie's limp form and paused, glancing up to catch Tabitha's knowing stare. The red coat they'd initially assumed to be of British issue now revealed, upon closer scrutiny, additional panels of yellow crossed with what had once been white. "First Pennsylvania," Caleb said, more to himself than to Ben, who called back for clarification. "I said the lad's First Pennsylvania!" he repeated, louder. "He's one of ours!"

Ben's lips parted briefly, and silently formed the word 'ours'. Sutton gave an almighty jerk, and Ben only just managed to keep hold of him and keep his balance. "How bad is he?" he asked, giving Sutton a firm shove back to the ground. "Don't you move, Private," he added, voice an octave lower than before, as he went to join Caleb beside the virtually lifeless soldier.

"It's not good," Caleb replied with a shrug as Ben crouched down next to him. "Nearly frozen through by the looks of 'im."

Ben cupped his hand along the boy's jaw. The graying skin beneath his fingers was ice, and other than the occasional, infinitesimal rise and fall of his chest, there was no sign of life. "He's so cold," Ben muttered. "Caleb, give me your coat," he added, making to remove his own as well. "We have to warm him. Try and get something underneath him, but mind his leg. Caleb?" Caleb hadn't moved. "Caleb!" Ben repeated, a bit more urgently.

"Benny," Caleb began hesitantly, and Ben _knew._

"He's dying." Tabitha's voice echoed the words in Ben's head. "It's too late."

"He's not!" came the incensed shout from Private Sutton. His hands scrambled for purchase on a boulder beside him, grimacing through the pain in his leg as he attempted to stand. "He'll be fine! Just needs to keep offa his leg, is all!"

Tabitha had never considered Ben frightening. He had a benevolent look about him, even when angered; something she thought detrimental to the authority of a Dragoon Captain. A good leader needed to command the respect of his men, and could hardly do so without instilling a mite of intimidation. But the man before her had no semblance of kindness on his face as he stood, leaving his blue coat draped over the frozen soldier like a shroud. His mouth was twisted in a wry grimace, and his eyes seemed to flash in the mid-morning sun as he spoke in a voice she had only heard once before—the night he'd nearly choked the breath out of her. "I told you not to move," he growled, fingers resting against the wooden grip of his pistol. "I won't tell you again."

"The chill's gotten to him," Tabitha continued, silently marveling at the terrified expression on Sutton's young face. And with the marvel came a feeling she'd never in her life expected to associate with Benjamin Tallmadge: Respect. "He's barely breathing, and I doubt he'll wake. And with that leg of his, any movement would likely kill him faster."

Ben frowned, mind racing. "If we built a fire… got him warm?"

"Can't," Caleb interrupted, one hand shielding his eyes as he glanced skyward. "Molly was right about those clouds. Storm's coming, Benny. We can't stay out here in the open like this."

"And we can't move him."

Under normal circumstances, Tabitha would have berated the men for stalling on what they all knew needed to be done, tragic though it was. But she held her tongue, opting instead to retrieve Sutton's pistol, which lay forgotten alongside a crowberry bush just out of arm's reach. She doubted Private Sutton would have any further need of it.

Ben had rounded on Sutton again, face set in grim determination. "Who is that man in the brush, Private?" he asked.

Sutton looked honestly confused. "Told ya, he's my brother," he said. "We was—"

"He is _**not**_ your brother!" Ben interrupted, loud enough that Tabitha glanced up from the ground in surprise as she slipped the discarded pistol into her coat. "He is a Sergeant of the First Pennsylvania Battalion!"

"He's _NOT!_" Sutton's voice was breathy from pain, but forceful nonetheless. "His name is William Henry Sutton! Ya think I can't recognize my own brother?" His eyes were bright. Pleading.

"How did he injure his leg?"

For a moment, Sutton's gaze fell from Ben to the blood-smeared grass splayed across his wounded leg. "He kept trying to run," he whispered. "My own bloody brother! I couldn't loose 'im again. So I _made_ 'im stay with me."

Ben was silent, and shook his head in disbelief. Not that Tabitha could blame him after such an admission, however, and she paused as she walked behind him. "Don't trouble yourself too much," she said in what she hoped came across as a calm, reassuring voice. "He's raving. Nothing anyone can do about that." When he didn't reply, she continued walking to where the other soldier lay. Ben's startlingly blue coat still lay draped across the man's rigid frame from chin to waist, and for a second, she was reluctant to move it.

Caleb seemed to sense her hesitation, however, and muttered, "Don't think Benny'll be too pleased to have a hole in his coat when that storm gets here."

With a derisive snort, Tabitha reached down to slide the blanket off the Sergeant's body and tossed it aside into the bush. "Miss Adams will have to teach him some plain-work then, won't she?" She drew the pistol from her coat and cocked the hammer, pausing for a second longer than necessary as she aimed at the man's heart. Though he wasn't even awake to feel it, if there was the slightest chance that a clean shot would make a difference to him, Tabitha chose to take it. The Sergeant had suffered enough. "_Requiem Aeternam dona eis, Domine_," she whispered, "_et lux perpetua luceat eis_."

She pulled the trigger.

The focused explosion seemed infinitely louder than the one she'd fired earlier, and a high-pitched ringing echoed through her ears. The only sound louder was Private Sutton, whose anguished howls filled the air—horrified, guttural shrieks more befitting a wounded animal than a human. His hands flew to his face; grasping, clawing, slipping occasionally in the slick of tears and snot smeared liberally across the angry red welts left behind. Ben turned his head slightly, glancing sidelong at Tabitha, who stared back and said nothing. In silence, Caleb retrieved Ben's coat from where it lay before rejoining the two men near the edge of the brush.

"You—killed—him!" Sutton moaned, breaths coming sharp and fast as he collapsed into the dirt. Coughs wracked his body, and blood began seeping fresh from his leg. Occasionally, his pitiful gasps were punctuated with the word 'Willie' and, at once point, "Mama".

Tabitha had heard enough. Ben and Caleb were preoccupied with their conversation—no doubt concerning Private Sutton and what was to be done with him—and she took her opportunity. The wind still whistled across the plain, and this time, she used it to her advantage as she stalked through the frosted grass to where Sutton lay weeping. Absorbed as he was in his distress, he didn't notice as she withdrew her dagger from its sheath until her hand wound itself in his hair and wrenched his head back to expose his throat.

"Tabitha, _no!_" Ben shouted, but it was too late. With a sharp twist of her wrist, the blade tore through skin and sinew alike, leaving a gaping slash stretching nearly ear to ear. Hot blood poured over her hand, and Caleb took a half-step back as several streams of red arced from the wound. The torn flaps quivered as Sutton instinctively attempted to draw breath, but all he managed was a gurgling cough. Blood pooled in the spaces between his teeth, mixing with spittle until it dribbled down his chin from the corners of his mouth.

She gave a small push, and Sutton fell forward, lifeless, onto the ground in a slowly-expanding pool of red; eyes open and unseeing. "Why did you do that?" Ben's voice was a forced calm as he strode purposefully towards her, and she instinctively took a step back.

"Because you wouldn't," she replied. "He needed to be put down. He's a lunatic."

Something in Ben's demeanor had changed, and Tabitha's grip tightened on her dagger. "Let me make this clear to you," he said lowly, standing far too close for comfort. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, and she tilted her head back slightly to look him dead in the eyes. "I am your Captain. You will do _nothing_ unless I order it. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she answered.

"That's good to hear." He held her gaze for a moment before turning away. Tabitha was suddenly aware of the pulse pounding in her throat, and her eyes narrowed.

"An' what'll ya have me do if my _Captain_ doesn' have the _liathroidí_ ta give an order?" she called to him.

Ben glared back at her, then said a bit louder than necessary, "Caleb, if Tabitha opens her mouth again, knock her out."

Caleb smirked and wiggled his eyebrows. "My pleasure."


	12. Implications

Tabitha's eyelids were heavy as she stared at the three sentences she'd managed to get on paper before her mind went blank. Her body ached for sleep after returning from Setauket, and the heavy warmth of the blanket draped over her shoulders wasn't helping her focus.

With a childish groan that would have earned her a stern reprimand when she was younger, she straightened her back slightly before leaning over the paper again, nibbling on the end of her quill as she tried to think of something to add to the report. The bitter taste of ink flooded her mouth seconds before she realized what she was doing, and she spat liberally onto the ground and fumbled for the mug of warm water on the desk. She took a long swig, and swished the lukewarm liquid around her cheeks and between her teeth before spitting it out as well.

Tabitha threw her quill down in exasperation. Reports were one thing, but how anyone could come up with two pages of words essentially saying "We didn't find anything" was beyond her. A waste of paper, in her opinion. Three sentences were more than enough, and if General Scott had an issue with it, she could simply direct him to Ben and Caleb. Besides, the whole idea had been theirs, and she really didn't see why she had to be the only one drafting up the report.

She stifled a brief wave of irritation as she folded the paper in thirds. The ink had had more than enough time to dry in the hour she'd spent staring blankly at the grain of the paper, and she stuffed the page unceremoniously into her pocket. As she stood, stretching, the blanket slid from her narrow shoulders into a pool of wool on the ground. She couldn't be to be arsed to pick it up, however, and after she snuffed the candle, she simply kicked it aside before ducking out of her tent into the mid-afternoon chill.

General Scott's tent was on the opposite side of the encampment, and Tabitha scurried from once campfire to the next, pausing briefly to warm her hands as she went, and then pausing a minute longer to lift a stick of hand-rolled tobacco from a young corporal. She passed it through the flames momentarily, then popped the end in her mouth as she hurried to the next fire.

The smoke billowed past her lips, much thicker than usual from the cold air. She huddled closer to the flames as she took another large drag from the small cylinder and, having had enough, offered it to an older-looking man seated beside her, who accepted it with a small nod of thanks.

Scott's tent was nearby, and she slipped her hands into her pockets as she jogged, breath clouding in front of her. The chill had rendered her cheeks a wind-burned red, and she knocked on the tent post a bit more forcefully than she had intended.

"Yes?" came the slightly muffled, brusque voice, and Tabitha shuffled inside to the welcome warmth. "Ah, Lieutenant. Do you have your report for me?"

Tabitha passed him the slightly crumpled paper, and inched forward towards the center of the tent. Scott glanced at the hastily-scrawled words, then looked back up at Tabitha. "'Nothing to be found'?" he quoted. "Is that all?"

"You'll forgive my brevity, General," she said, "but I didn't want to waste your time, as Lieutenant Brewster and Captain Tallmadge seem to believe I have done with theirs." There was a clear terseness in her utterance of the men's names, which was not lost on the General.

"It's not a problem, Lieutenant," Scott said, setting the paper amongst the multitude of reports on his desk. "Please, sit down." Tabitha did as she was beckoned, and Scott continued. "You must not allow yourself to be discouraged. I admire your dedication in pursuing this matter, even though it proved to be false." Tabitha nodded, but remained silent. "This is why we send out scouts, McKenna. We hear plenty of troubling news, but it's vital that we confirm it before acting."

"Yes, sir."

"Which is why I'm very impressed," he said, passing her a cup of ale, which she accepted gratefully. "You were not quick to suggest we act on your intelligence—only that we investigate it further. Nor did you dismiss it until you were certain of its inaccuracy."

"Thank you, General," she said between sips. "And just to clarify, I am profoundly relieved that my intelligence was false. My distaste lies with Brewster and Tallmadge. They're quite smug when they're correct."

"Indeed they are," Scott muttered, before draining his cup. "I wonder, Lieutenant, how you would feel about assuming more responsibility in this unit."

Tabitha's eyes widened a fraction as she guessed at what Scott was insinuating. "How do you mean, General?" she asked, keeping her voice as even as she could.

"I'm going to be honest with you, McKenna, and I don't wish to hear what I am about to say repeated."

"Of course, sir."

General Scott leaned slightly forward in his chair. "Tallmadge and Brewster are fine men. They are good soldiers and loyal to the cause. However." He paused briefly, making certain he had Tabitha's full attention. "Some of their recent actions have led me to question their position as officers. I'm sure you've heard Captain Tallmadge will be facing court-martial, and once he's brought up on charges, I will need new officers to take his place." Tabitha's mouth hung open a fraction as he spoke. "Preferably ones who have my confidence."

"Sir, are you… implying that—"

"I wish to have you promoted, Mr. McKenna," he answered. "And I assume you would be comfortable with the responsibilities such a promotion entails."

"I have no trouble making the difficult decisions, as you know, General," she replied. "But I would be lying if I said I am wholly prepared for the responsibilities you mentioned. And with Tallmadge and Brewster—"

Scott shook his head as he refilled his cup. "You would not answer to them," he said. "Only to myself and officers I designate. But I do require something from you." Tabitha's heart pounded, and she instinctively glanced over her shoulder, somehow fearful that Ben or Caleb would overhear their exchange.

"What do you need from me, General?"

Scott seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Tabitha as he stared at the tent flap behind her. "Captain Tallmadge is very adamant about trusting the word of his informant on Long Island, despite being unable to offer reasons for anyone else to do so." Tabitha felt a chill growing in the pit of her stomach as Scott continued. "He recently provided me with information about Hessian mercenaries in Trenton. If this is indeed true, it must be forwarded to General Washington. However, if it is false, then the results could be disastrous. You understand the importance of confirming reports, Mr. McKenna."

Tabitha nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I need to know the name of Captain Tallmadge's man in Setauket," he said, "And I'm trusting you will be able to get it."

"I…" Tabitha began, then cleared her throat and continued, stronger: "I am not a confidant of Captain Tallmadge," she said. "He has admitted to distrusting me, and rarely speaks openly when I am present."

"The promotion would come with a substantial pay raise," Scott said, as though Tabitha hadn't spoken. "I assume you have plans for the future? A wife? Children to provide for?"

Tabitha paused, considering. "I have no intended, nor had I thought that far to the future, sir. I've long since resigned myself to the likelihood that I may not survive this war," she said. "However… I have a sister." Scott nodded, seemingly interested, but she couldn't be certain. "Her husband died in a fishing accident three months past. She has an infant son, and I promised to provide for them both."

"He'll be a strong lad, like his uncle," Scott said approvingly, and Tabitha felt a small surge of pride. "You'll consider my offer?"

Tabitha nodded, and felt sick doing so. But the thought of the small child in Baltimore was enough to stifle her unease for the moment. "I will do what I can, sir."

"Excellent!" Scott rose to his feet, and Tabitha hurriedly did the same. "Good afternoon, Mr. McKenna. I expect to hear from you soon."

"Yes sir," she said, and with a polite incline of her head, retreated back through the tent flap into the winter chill. The temperature had dropped substantially, but the conversation had left her temporarily numb, and she trudged back to her tent, heedless of the wind whistling in her ears.

* * *

Ben's tent always seemed to be cold, no matter what he did to insulate it. In the end, he attributed it to the constant comings and goings of various personnel, all bringing more items for him to look over, or with questions he often had to refrain from rolling his eyes while answering. But today, the tent was warm, and he and Caleb sat immersed in a game of draughts as they talked.

"…infuriating, insolent, _vicious_—your move. The way she cut his throat, Caleb, I…" he trailed off, shaking his head.

Caleb frowned at the board, finally settling on a move. "She's a fine soldier, I'll say that much," he muttered. "Not a lot in the way of obedience, but that's a woman fer ya."

"But her opinion of Miss Adams," Ben pressed. "Could she have been right? How well do you really know her?"

Caleb sighed as he looked up from the board. "Well enough, Tall-Boy," he said. "She migh' be gettin' in a bit over her head, but believe me, she can handle it."

Ben nudged one of the pieces halfheartedly with the tip of his finger before slouching in his chair. "It feels wrong. Putting a woman in this sort of position, I mean. If something were to happen to her…"

"How can ya be worried about her bein' a woman after dealin' with Molly?" Caleb interjected.

"You can't honestly be comparing Charlotte to Tabitha," Ben said with a raise of his eyebrows. "I've come to doubt that Tabitha is even _human_."

"Ya've 'come to doubt'?" Caleb repeated, bemused. "She's a demon, plain an' simple. A demon with very shapely legs—"

"Caleb…"

"But a demon's a demon," Caleb concluded with a laugh, moving his piece forward. "But the Devil _is_a master of temptation; what can I tell ya?"

Ben gave Caleb an exasperated glare. "King me."

"You're cheatin'."

Ben smirked. "Am I?"

Caleb grumbled as he searched for another move. "Ya know what the problem is, don't ya?" he said after a brief silence. "She's too familiar with you. Might be why she thinks she doesn' have to listen to yer orders." Ben snorted softly, resting his head in one of his hands as he stared at the board. "She won' try that_liathroidí_shite with me, Benny, I'll tell ya that now."

"What did that word even mean?" Ben asked suddenly, recalling his confusion from earlier. "I doubt it was polite, whatever it was."

"Oh, it wasn't," Caleb said with a grin. "Never heard a woman talk like that before."

"Keep a close eye on her," Ben warned. "I mean it. And she's not going back to Setauket."

Caleb laughed. "Ya think I'm stupid, Benny?" he said. "All we need is Woody pullin his butter knife on 'er. It'd be the last thing he'd ever do. King me."

Ben swore under his breath s he stared at the board again. "There's no _way_…"

"Deal with it."


	13. Safe

The cry was piercing in the air of the dark December night, and for a moment, Tabitha felt disconnected; knowing that this forest—wherever it was—was an illusion at best. The immense variety of white oak and hickory blended with the evergreens was a sight she hadn't seen since her final days in Baltimore, where Father Michael had said mass on the outskirts of town before she could depart. The forest floor was littered with pine needles and acorns, and the scent of turpentine filled the air as she walked, needles crushing beneath the timber heels of her otherwise delicate slippers.

Slippers…?

She glanced at her feet, frowning. The delicate lace and silk encasing them sent a spark of fear shooting through her chest, and she hastily kicked them off, scooping them from the ground and hurling them into the distant brush. Heart pounding, she glanced around, silently praying no one from the unit had seen her. Feeling satisfied, she set off towards what she could only hope was the encampment. There were no stars, no moon; no viable way to discern her position in the dark aside from the gut feeling that her destination lay somewhere ahead.

The pain of pine needles and errant sticks and stones digging into her feet was nothing compared to the cold. Perhaps her lower extremities had gone numb; a simple explanation as to why she could scarcely feel the undergrowth scratching welts across her bare calves and the jagged pebbles wedged between her toes. But there was something ahead—she was sure of it. Never once did she think to question what it was, until the cry from before rang out again.

This time, she recognized it. A baby. A newborn, judging by the pitch of the shriek, and her heart pounded in her throat. "Is someone out there?" she called, breath fogging in front of her as her voice echoed in the dark. "Hello?"

The wailing grew louder—from her left, she realized—and she took off running. Branches and leaves whipped across her face, and she held her arms up slightly to shield herself. The undergrowth grew denser, and she resorted to small leaps in some places, feeling the vague, distant sensation of rough foliage tearing gashes in her feet as though they belonged to someone else entirely. All that mattered was the screaming child that she just didn't seem to be getting any closer to.

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a small flicker of light. Almost like that of a candle, but somewhat brighter. The millisecond she took to glance after it was all it took for her foot to finally catch on a particularly sturdy root, and she fell sprawling to the forest floor. Wincing at the stinging in her knees and palms, she gingerly picked herself up and hurriedly looked around her. The light, if it had even truly been there, was nowhere to be seen.

The child cried out in the distance, more urgently than before, and Tabitha set off again, limping slightly as she ran. Her breath came in short, clouded bursts, and the freezing air burned in her lungs as she skidded to a halt at the edge of a dark ravine, one hand clutching on a low-hanging branch for support. Seeing no way down, she doubled over slightly, her free hand pressed on her knee as she tried to catch her breath. Still, the child cried, and she cursed as she straightened up and jogged parallel to the ditch, searching for some way down.

When she saw the light again, she was faster. There was definitely someone in the trees; clearly male, face obscured in the darkness, and just barely out of her reach. "Who are you?" she shouted, turning to follow the man instead. But as soon as she blinked, he was gone. "_Damnú air!_" she growled, turning back to the ravine, and the sound of the screaming infant.

The man holding the light had returned. Though she couldn't see him, Tabitha felt his hot breath on her neck mere moments before a pair of large, open palms collided with her shoulders, sending her tumbling into the darkness with an undignified shriek. Her hands scrambled for purchase as she slid down the embankment, until she finally came to an abrupt, crashing stop at the bottom—but not before her head collided with a sickening _crunch_ against a jutting rock.

Dazed and disoriented, she lay still, the canopy of trees above her blurry as they spun, and the dull pounding of her pulse echoing through her throbbing head. Time seemed relative as she faded in and out of consciousness, and she was certain the first hints of dawn should have been visible by now. But the dark, moonless night showed no sign of concluding anytime in the foreseeable future. Nor did the desperate screaming of the child in the distance, and Tabitha groaned helplessly; her dirty, bloody hands clutching furiously at the soil beneath her.

Once the worst of the vertigo had passed, she rolled to her side and tried to stand, but was overcome by a sudden bout of nausea. Quickly dropping back to her knees, she doubled over and, with a lurch of her stomach, felt what little she'd eaten that day burning at the back of her throat before splattering in a torrent on the freezing ground in front of her. Her eyes watered and her nose ran, and every heave brought up more bile and a more intense pounding in the back of her skull. Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, she felt the worst pass, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her shaking hand as she tried to catch her breath.

She was aware of movement in front of her again, and looked up to see an oddly familiar hand offered out to her, which she hesitantly accepted. The man hoisted her to her feet, and she leaned against his strong frame as she tried desperately to regain her balance. "_An bhfuil tú ceart go leor, a Thaibít?_" the man asked, and Tabitha froze.

Heedless of the white-hot pain in the back of her head, she spun around to face the man, and tears welled up in her eyes almost instantaneously, dripping down her filthy cheeks before she could even think to stop them. "_An bhfuil sé i ndáiríre tú?_" she breathed, reaching out for the suddenly familiar face all too close to hears. "Aaron?"

There was no doubt in her mind. Those same startling green eyes both twins shared with their father, the dark fringe of brown hair that looked black on all but the brightest days, the tanned, almost gold skin they were told he'd inherited from their mother… That familiar mouth quirked in a half-smile, and his broad thumbs swiped beneath her eyes, taking her tears with them. "I miss you so much, Aaron," she whispered, her fingers intertwining with his.

"I know," he said, finally pulling his sister into a tight embrace. "I've missed you too. More than you could know."

For a moment, Tabitha felt at peace. There was no night, no screaming child in the distance, no pain, no war tearing through her home. Only her brother, his warm embrace, and the sound of his breathing in her ears. Aaron was _here_, and wherever _here_ was, she couldn't bring herself to care. Had the Devil himself appeared to them at that very moment, she wouldn't have minded.

But still, something was wrong, and it took her a short while to figure out what it was. Her dark brows furrowed, and she pressed her ear closer to Aaron's chest. Her own pulse still pounded in the growing lump on her head, but she couldn't hear its echo in her brother, as she had before. Her eyes widened at the sudden realization, and she felt rather than heard Aaron's breaths grow increasingly labored. She pulled back abruptly, and had to stifle a scream that rapidly shifted into another wave of nausea.

Aaron's face was dark, his eyes wide and bulging as his hands clawed at the rope looped around his neck. His feet kicked feebly—when had he been hoisted from the ground?, she wondered—and the whites of his eyes were now spotted with bright red. She tried to scream, but like her brother, she felt choked and instead let out a strangled whimper as she desperately tried to reach the rope.

She was too late. No sooner had her fingers touched the rough hemp, Aaron's body gave an almighty lurch, and was still. Tabitha wrenched her hand back, clutching it to her chest as her brother's corpse swung slightly in the breeze. "No…" she groaned feebly. "No, no, no no no no!" There was another sound behind her, and she jumped as she whipped around, and felt the blood drain from her face. More men, all clad in the same uniform as Aaron, hanging limply in the trees surrounding her. A couple were still struggling, looking at her with the briefest glimmer of hope in their eyes, and Tabitha finally screamed.

She stumbled as she ran, but didn't stop. Half on her feet, half with her hands, she ran like a beast, tears flying from her eyes and saliva running heedlessly down the side of her mouth. She was sucking wind; her limbs burned and her chest was on fire, but every ounce of sinew in her body was alive and urging her to flee. And flee she did. The ground was no longer firm beneath her feet—it squelched and gave, and she didn't need to see to know it was soaked in blood. The coppery stick wafted up around her, soaking into her skin and clothing as she willed herself not to sick up again.

The collision wasn't entirely unexpected; in fact, she'd half-expected to collide with a tree nearly the moment she started running. But as she fell backwards, landing firmly on her bottom, she didn't know whether to be terrified or relieved as she beheld the towering form of Father Michael standing directly in front of her. "Father," she whimpered, struggling to stand, but unable to rise past her knees. "Help me. _Cabhrú liom_, Father, please…"

There was no expression in the priest's eyes, and Tabitha was briefly reminded of the paintings she'd seen depicting angels and saints, all of which she'd found strangely beautiful, yet frightening at the same time. Light seemed to burn around him as he raised his right hand, fingers bent in the sign of benediction as he traced the sign of the cross in front of him.

With each motion, Tabitha felt pain rip through her body; a long, wide gash vertically splitting both her lips and traveling down past her navel, to where a second was forming, slicing deep across her abdomen. The scream came deep from the core of her being, and her hands clutched at her stomach, panic rising as she felt the hot blood pouring from the gash. The heat only intensified as she felt the slick slide of her organs slipping through the mouth of the wound, somehow moving past her fingers one after the other no matter where she pushed. She could hear it again, clearer than ever: the pained shrieks of the child-_her_ child, she realized with a sickening jolt, as a tiny, bloody hand poked its way out through the tangled ropes of her intestines.

A final scream tore its way past her throat, and the world went dark.

* * *

She woke up screaming, thrashing wildly against the blankets twined too tight around her body, and sucked in a sharp breath as she fell to the floor. The words came unbidden to her lips as she prayed, "_Ave Maria, gratia plena; Dominus tecum."_ Her voice shook, and her throat felt raw. She wondered how long she'd been screaming. "_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen._" Her fingers brushed against her forehead and shirt as she crossed herself and, breathing deep and shallow, she pressed a hand to her chest to still her pounding heart. Once she felt the panic slowly fade from her limbs, she reached for the candle stub discarded beneath her bed. With the flame burning steadily, she pressed it firmly into the holder, eyes flitting as she looked around her tent.

There was nothing out of the ordinary, and for the first time since receiving Aaron's letter, she felt truly and utterly alone.

On a whim, she pulled her coat over her shoulders and slid into her boots before extinguishing her candle and tucking it into her pouch. She peered outside her tent, wincing at the chill, and slipped out into the night. The fires burned low, and few men were still out—fortunately for her, none near enough to hear her hysterical shrieks. She couldn't be sure what pushed her in his direction, but minutes later found her tapping hesitantly on the post outside Caleb's tent. His voice called out, muffled by the flaps, and she stepped inside.

"Didn' expect ta see ya here, Molly," he said, glancing up briefly from the stone he was running along the blade of his axe. "Thought ya'd be sleepin'."

She didn't know what to say. All she could do was shift her feet uncomfortably, reveling in the simple fact that there was another living person next to her; that she _wasn't alone_. "May I… sit here awhile?" she managed finally, indicating the empty cot beside him.

Caleb stared at her suspiciously, and for a moment, she was sure he'd turn her away. "Ya look like hell," he said. Tabitha once again said nothing, and just stared at the bed hopefully. "Well, go on, then, 'm not stoppin ya," he finally agreed with a shrug.

"Thank you," she said, sitting on the rough blanket and allowing her eyes to follow the path of the stone in Caleb's hand. No further words were spoken and, as she gradually felt her eyelids grow heavy once again, she knew she was safe.

* * *

Gratuitous Irish Google!translations:

An bhfuil tú ceart go leor, a Thaibít? - Are you alright, Tabitha?  
An bhfuil sé i ndáiríre tú? - Is it really you?  
Cabhrú liom - Help me


	14. Nothing Personal

When Tabitha awoke the next morning, she felt momentarily disoriented. She had no memory of falling asleep, let alone of falling asleep anywhere near the odd-smelling—yet surprisingly warm—tent in which she found herself. Daylight peered through the edges of the tent flap, and she stretched luxuriously beneath the pile of blankets.

Then it hit her. Caleb's tent. That, and the realization that she must have fallen asleep sometime shortly after wandering in the night before. She didn't recall any conversation outside her request to sit with him awhile, and she flushed angrily as she kicked the blankets—which couldn't have been draped over her by anyone other than the whaler himself—to the floor.

Caleb was never going to let her live it down. She knew as soon as she emerged from the chilly (yet still warmer than her own) tent, he would be waiting nearby with an insufferable smirk and a right plethora of new material for his self-styled "witty banter" over breakfast. Though the likelihood of rousing anyone's suspicion with his jokes was miniscule, that didn't make his supposedly good-natured mocking any less annoying.

As she sat up, still fuming, she caught sight of the sharpening stone Caleb had been using the night before, along with the sealskin bag the whaler usually carried with him. Her breath caught in her chest as she glanced around the room, making sure she was alone, before hurrying over to where it lay. Part of her knew it was wrong, especially after Caleb had been gracious enough to share his tent without question. But she pushed that part down and she rifled through the bag, heart pounding as her fingers brushed against paper.

The letter was written in an elegant, flowing script that Tabitha could only assume belonged to Miss Adams. The contents were nothing truly noteworthy—a bit of rambling about a Major with an uncommon love for horses and an even greater love for her playing of the pianoforte—but two sentences halfway down the page stood out clearer than the rest:

"_I regret to inform you that I shall be unavailable until early January, as Aunt Rebecca has insisted I accompany her to York City for the duration of the month. But my dear cousin shall remain at your disposal until my return, upon which I shall regale you with the many stories I hope to hear once the wine begins to flow."_

While telling Scott that this "dear cousin's" name was, in fact, Abraham would be much easier, she couldn't outright admit to having met the flighty young man without risking her promotion. Therefore, looking into this "Aunt Rebecca" would have to be enough for the General. It wasn't a betrayal, she reasoned, pulling out paper and a quill from another part of Caleb's bag. Not really, since she'd never actually been on their side to begin with. She'd been perfectly content with keeping to herself, and had Caleb seen fit to do the same, everyone could have just gone on with their lives.

Nor was it anything personal, she thought, as she quickly copied the letter in her own hasty scrawl. She hadn't joined the Continental Army to fight for freedom and kill the Lobsterbacks, though that _was_ an added bonus. The truth was far less glamorous, as she had partially revealed to Caleb on the boat back from Setauket: Money. Signing the farm over to herself would require a lawyer to draft up the papers, and lawyers were anything but cheap.

She tucked the letter and quill back into Caleb's bag as she blew on the ink shining wetly on the page. Once she was satisfied that the words wouldn't be completely illegible, she folded it into a small square and tucked it into her boot, until it was lodged securely between her calf and the leather. For a moment, she felt the guilt rising in her chest. Turning on Ben in such a way wouldn't bother her in the slightest, but Caleb was a different story, she realized, as the sleeve of the whaler's coat caught her eye from beneath the pile of blankets she'd thrown to the floor. The man barely knew her, and had every reason to hate her, yet he'd been surprisingly charitable in allowing her to share his tent at a moment's notice—and without any real explanation.

With an irritated sigh, she tugged the coat free and draped it across her arm and, after giving her own coat a sharp tug and running her fingers through the dark strands that had pulled loose from her braid in the night, ducked out through the tent flap into the midmorning chill. The sun seemed brighter than usual, and she squinted slightly as she peered across the clearing to the cookfires, and the men gathered around them. Scott's tent lay beyond them, and Tabitha found herself torn between presenting him with the letter immediately, or nabbing a bowlful of whatever the three sergeants at the next fire were cooking.

Her stomach gave a rumbling growl, thus settling the debate in her mind. Scott could wait. Her appetite, however, clearly could not.

"What's that you're cooking?" she said offhandedly, peering into the pot.

"Dunno, sir," one of the men said with a chuckle. "Bird of some sort. And some roots Johnny found."

The one called Johnny rolled his eyes. "I been tellin' ya, they're mushrooms, ya shite."

The other sergeant shrugged. "Tastes like shite, in any case," he muttered. "Have yerself a bowl, lieutenant, an' see what I mean."

Tabitha was only too happy to comply, hastily scooping out a helping and raising it to her lips before it could cool too much in the morning breeze. The soup wasn't half-bad, she thought, though she did tend to be less picky when her stomach was doing wolf impressions. She almost would have gone as far as to call it tasty, except for the sudden unidentifiable bit in her mouth. She stuck out her tongue, and winced as she pulled half a soggy feather from the tip.

"Did you pluck the bird yourself, then, Johnny?" she asked, flicking the feather in his direction. The two sergeants cackled gleefully, one elbowing a sullen-looking Johnny in the ribs as he drained what was left of his bowl.

"Here's to the ladies, then," he said, raising his bowl in a mock toast. "Would that I had my sister here to make us a proper meal."

Johnny gave a short laugh, and Tabitha snorted into her soup. "Define 'proper'," the other sergeant replied. "Coz, see, I've had your sister's cooking once, and I'd pick Johnny's stewed feathers any day."

The bowl caught the sergeant on the chin, and the two men quickly devolved into good-natured scuffling. Johnny, however, was doing his best to hide his glowing smile as he slurped up the last of his soup. Tabitha had made to copy him, and had half-drained her bowl when an echoing shout of "Molly!" rang out from somewhere to her left. She coughed in surprise, soup dribbling down her cheeks and chin as she turned to glare at the offender.

Caleb was waving her down from beside another fire, grin practically stretching ear-to-ear as she wiped the soup from her face. "Christ, Brewster!" she swore. "D'ya have ta shout, ya heathen?!" Without waiting for a reply, she got to her feet and raised his coat high enough for him to see, then held it threateningly over the fire. His grin dropped, replaced with a look of exasperated disbelief. She shook her head and draped the coat over her arm once more, giving a brief 'thank you' to the sergeants before trudging over to where Caleb sat languidly next to a somewhat larger fire.

"You dropped this," she said, tossing the coat into his lap a bit harder than necessary.

"Well, you were shiverin'," he replied, pulling the coat over his shoulders. "Aw, that's sweet. Ya kept it nice an' warm fer me."

"Shut up." Tabitha pulled her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees as she stared into the flames. A moment of silence passed before she softly added, "Thank you."

Caleb shrugged. "Don't thank me. I almost let ya freeze." Tabitha snorted, and continued staring into the fire. The camp was quieter than usual, but with the steady drop in temperature, it was hardly surprising. The few who had ventured outside that morning seemed more focused on keeping warm than on talking, and the random snatches of conversation that reached her ears were spoken in far more hushed tones than most mornings. One boy a few fires over was attempting to play a cheery tune on his fife, and Tabitha wasn't sure whether his numb fingers or lack of skill was to blame for the horrid sounds he was making.

"Billets are up in a month," she said casually, and Caleb's face hardened.

"So that's what the lads're talkin' about, is it?" he grumbled.

"Some," she said. "But it's just talk. Not like there's much else to talk _about_."

Caleb grimaced as the boy with the fife blew another sour note. "They could talk about shuttin' him up," he said with a pointed glare, and Tabitha rolled her eyes.

"Have you ever heard of the_ píob mhór_?" she asked with a small grin. When Caleb shook his head, she continued, "Irish warpipes. A set of pipes attached to a pouch you blow up with air. Back in Ireland, my grandfather was in the Battle of Aughrim. Absolute massacre, so it's good he wasn't fighting." She snorted softly and added, "He shouldn't have been there, really. Far too young. But he wanted to play those damn pipes. My father brought them along when he came to Maryland, and I remember him playing them for Aaron and I once."

"Can't say I've ever heard an instrument like that before," Caleb admitted with a grin.

Tabitha nodded. "You're damn lucky, too," she said emphatically. "Sounded like a dying goat." Caleb burst out laughing, and despite her surprise, Tabitha couldn't help grinning in return. "To be fair, my father didn't have an ear for music, but I imagine in the right hands, they must have sounded truly majestic."

"All's I can imagine is someone knockin' your grandfather upside the head, tryin' to get him to shut up," Caleb finally managed through his laughter. "Like that little clod over there," he added, pointing at the boy with the fife.

The music stopped, and Tabitha snickered. "Think he heard you," she whispered. There was a brief moment where both lieutenants tried to compose themselves, but one look at the other sent both into an uncontrollable fit of laughter that attracted several confused stares. The boy stormed off to his tent, and after a few long minutes, they finally started to calm down.

"You should help me with the boats today," Caleb said, and Tabitha looked up in surprise. "Nothin' you can't handle, I promise."

Tabitha arched an eyebrow. "Either you've forgotten I'm not fond of boats, or Ben's asked you to keep an eye on me," she reasoned.

"Or, third choice, I gotta lot of work to do, and your lazy arse doesn't. So how's bout lendin' me a hand, molly?"

After a moment's consideration, she nodded. The small square of paper seemed to press more intently into the skin of her calf, but she quickly pushed it to the back of her mind. Scott wasn't going anywhere, and it wasn't as though she'd been given a timeframe in the first place. "If you push me in the river, Brewster…" she began threateningly.

"Don't worry," Caleb said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "If I push you in, I'll haveta do all the work myself."

"Very reassuring," Tabitha grumbled, getting to her feet nonetheless. "Lead the way, Brewster."


	15. Resin

The boats were much larger than Tabitha had expected—certainly larger than the small dinghy the three of them had taken to Setauket. These were well over fifteen meters in length, sturdily built from oak and iron, and easily the most impressive watercraft she'd ever laid eyes on.

Caleb had already hopped aboard the nearest one, which rocked slightly and pulled against the rope keeping it tethered to a particularly thick elm as he grabbed a few bags he'd stashed inside, probably the night before. "Get a fire goin', wouldya molly?" he called, and Tabitha was snapped out of her momentary reverie.

"Are we going to burn them, then?" she asked with a smirk, crouching down to gather a few sticks regardless.

Caleb didn't bother to answer, and instead tossed a large bag in her direction. "We're patchin' the boats," he said simply, climbing back out with another bag in tow. "Guess Washington couldn't afford to send us new ones, so we'll just have to work with what we've got, won't we?"

Tabitha shrugged as she struck a match and dropped it into the small pile of twigs and grass. "Don't know what all this 'we' business is about," she replied. "I know next to nothing about boats."

"Well, that's why I'm gonna teach ya," Caleb said cheerily, rubbing his hands over the slowly-growing flames as Tabitha piled on more sticks. "Never know when it might be useful." Tabitha scoffed softly, and Caleb grinned. "Don' be like that, molly. You'll love it."

"_Chuala mé go roimh,_" she muttered, and Caleb stared down at her incredulously.

"Have ya, then?" he asked with a snort. "Well, good to know I won't be the first to disappoint ya."

Tabitha's mouth hung open slightly as she stared back. "You speak Irish?"

Caleb shrugged as he tugged open the bag and began rifling through its contents. "_Tá, beagán_," he replied, dropping several handfuls of what looked like rocks onto the ground beside him. "I worked with a few Irish whalers a couple years back. Couldn't help picking up a few words here and there." He paused as he looked up from the bag. "Gotta say, though, none of 'em had a mouth like yours."

"Coming from you, Brewster, I'll take that as a gracious compliment." Caleb laughed, loud enough to make her jump slightly before letting out a small snort of her own. "What are these rocks for, then?" she continued, plucking one of the discarded stones from the ground. Upon closer inspection, the texture was all wrong. The stone, or whatever it was, had scuffs and scratches across its surface, and felt softer, in a way, than any other stone she'd held before. A feeling she could almost liken to amber.

"Not rocks," Caleb confirmed, pulling two pots out and dropping them to the ground with a loud _clang_. "Resin. Since ya can't be home cookin' meals, I'll show ya how to cook up some pine pitch."

"I'm not afraid to light your eyebrows on fire, Brewster," Tabitha growled, lifting a smoldering stick out of the fire for emphasis. Caleb seemed wholly unimpressed by her threat, but chose not to comment.

"What I'll be havin' ya do," he continued, "is meltin' these down in the pot." He indicated the resin chunks as he dropped them into the taller pot, and Tabitha nodded her understanding. "This one here goes into the shorter one, and we'll be fillin' that up with water."

Tabitha tossed her handful of resin in with the rest. "Wouldn't it be quicker without the water?" she asked. "The whole river looks like it's nearly turned to ice."

"Well, ya _could_ do it without the water," Caleb said, "but I wouldn' recommend it. This catches fire, it won't be my eyebrows you'll have to worry about. I've seen the flames go up higher than a man's head once."

Tabitha eyed the pot doubtfully. "And what, exactly, do you plan on doing with this?" she asked. "Do you plan on setting fire to the boats?"

"Nah, just sealin' up a few cracks." He dropped the pot into her lap and grabbed the second, calling over his shoulder as he dipped it into the river, "Once it melts, you'll need a fistful of rabbit dung. And a coupla candles."

Tabitha wrinkled her nose slightly as he handed her the pot of water. "Why exactly do you need my help with this, Brewster?" she asked, setting the pots on the makeshift stove before taking a large step back.

"I don't," he admitted, climbing back into the boat with the second bag. "But I know Scott won't be makin' ya do anythin' too unpleasant, so—"

"—so you'd just like to see me suffer, is that it?" she interrupted. Her face was split with a mischievous grin, but inside, her heart was racing at the mention of the General. She could feel the folded paper in her boot pressing all too sharply against her leg, and she shifted her leg uncomfortably. It had only just occurred to her how unusual it was for Caleb to be without his bag, and how equally unlikely he was to leave such vital information laying about in his tent.

Perhaps he knew, she thought with a sudden twist of her gut. Maybe that was why he'd insisted on her joining him. The man was self-admittedly like a brother to Ben—Ben, who was facing court-martial—and childhood friends with both Abe and Miss Adams. All three of whom would be in trouble of varying degrees once Scott read the letter. And there was no way Caleb would allow that to happen.

Her eyes flickered momentarily to the icy water. All it would take was one plunge into the frigid depths. She was too far from camp to be heard, and she had told no one where she was going. One good plunge, and the next time anyone saw her would be when they pulled her frozen corpse from the river.

Caleb seemed to sense her discomfort, and Tabitha's hand slowly crept closer to the knife at her belt. "Hate the water that much, do ya?" he asked, and Tabitha quickly dropped her hand back to her side.

"Not… quite my strong suit," she said hesitantly, and Caleb offered out his hand.

"C'mere," he said, and after a brief moment of quiet panic, she allowed herself to be pulled aboard. The boat rocked slightly under their combined weight, and while Caleb barely seemed to notice, Tabitha found herself colliding headlong into the whaler's chest as she attempted to regain some small semblance of balance. "We'll have ta work on getting' you yer sea legs," he laughed.

"We're in the river, you lout," she growled, struggling to stand without Caleb's support, and failing miserably as she stumbled once again.

"Careful, molly." He grabbed her arm and pulled her back, guiding her to one of the benches. "Ya fall in, I'm leavin' ya to freeze."

Tabitha glared. "Comforting."

"I'd thaw ya out in the spring," he conceded with a shrug, and Tabitha rolled her eyes. "So what is it? You afraid of water? Or can't ya swim?"

"Neither," she answered stiffly. "I swim very well, and I'm not in the least bit afraid of water. Or boats, for that matter. I just never learned how to use one, is all."

Caleb grabbed one of the poles, and Tabitha immediately opened her mouth in protest. "Sit yer arse down, molly," he said. "I'm not gonna drown ya. Just gonna show ya how to maneuver one of these beauties."

"I don't care how you do it."

"You'll thank me later," he said, tugging the rope loose.

"Brewster…"

"Christ, molly, quit your whining and take a pole." Tabitha snarled under her breath, but took the pole being pressed in front of her. "There, that's better."

She turned her glare to iron-tipped rod and glanced back up at Caleb. "What is it you want me to do with this?"

"Here." He gestured for her to move closer, which she did reluctantly. "All ya have ta do is drop it into the water, til ya feel the bottom. Like this." Tabitha peered over the side of the boat as the pole slipped beneath the surface. The water wasn't that deep, she realized, and she looked back up to the whaler, silently urging him to continue. "Now, ya just… push." And he did, and Tabitha felt her grip on the side loosen as the boat glided forward. "Not hard, really."

"No, I suppose not," she agreed, slowly getting to her feet to stand beside him with her own pole. Mirroring his movements, she let the pole slide into the water, grasp tightening as it hit the bottom. "All I have to do is push?" At Caleb's nod, she gave a quick shove, and the boat lurched. She let out a muffled shriek as the pole was ripped from her hands, and her arms windmilled as she teetered dangerously over the edge.

Fortunately, Caleb managed to grab hold of the back of her coat, and with a sharp tug, she fell backwards into the bottom of the boat. It was a couple frantic moments before she realized Caleb was laughing at her, and she felt her face burn. "It isn't funny," she snapped. "You made it look easy on purpose, you—!" She trailed off as Caleb pointed upstream, and she realized what had him in hysterics.

Her pole jutted proudly from the river like a flag, stuck fast in the muddy riverbed. "Oh," she muttered, and felt a smile creep unbidden to her face. Before long, she joined in laughing, doubled over in the bottom of the boat as Caleb just continued pointing and howling. Once their laughter had died down slightly, Tabitha caught a whiff of what smelled like burning—

Her eyes snapped open before she could finish the thought, and she quickly turned to stare at the shoreline. Sure enough, huge clouds of smoke were billowing from the pot of resin, and she felt her heart leap into her throat. "Brewster, the fire!" she exclaimed, and for a moment, she thought Caleb was going to start laughing again.

"It does that," he said offhandedly. "Nothin' to worry abou—" The words died in his mouth as the first of the flames shot up from the pot. "Oh, fuck me," he swore, grabbing the pole and nearly knocking Tabitha upside the head in the process.

By the time they reached the shore, the flames seemed to be dying down slightly, and she winced apologetically. "Think we can still use any of it?" she asked, and Caleb shook his head.

"Nevermind," he said offhandedly. "I figured somethin' like this'd happen, it bein' yer first time and all." He grinned as her mouth hung open in indignation, and continued, "which is why I only gave ya a little."

"You think this is my fault?" she exclaimed as he climbed out. "Who insisted I try and push a boat across the river with a pole?"

"You're getting that pole back," he interjected playfully. "Jus' so ya know."

"Get it yerself, ya gobshite!" Tabitha shot back, swinging her legs over the side of the boat in what should have been an easy, fluid motion. However, Caleb chose that moment to give the rope a sharp tug, and the resulting jolt sent her tumbling into the muddy water with a shout. "_Drochrath air_," she swore, feeling the icy wetness seeping into her boots and the knees of her breeches coupled with the sinking realization that the hidden letter would probably be drenched as well.

"All right down there?" Caleb called.

Tabitha pressed her hand against the boat for balance as she got to her feet, wincing as the cold began to fully set in. "I'll get you back for this, Brewster," she shuddered, feet squelching wetly in her boots as she trudged further up from the riverbank, and closer to the warmth of the fire.

"You'll wanna take those off," he suggested as he moved to join her. "Don' want yer feet to freeze. Here, d'ya need me to—"

"I'm perfectly capable of undressing myself," she said, tugging the first boot off with a soft squish. A thin trickle of water dripped out as she tipped it upside down, and she tossed it closer to the fire as she wriggled her slightly-numb toes in the warmth.

The other boot was trickier. She could hardly slip the letter out unseen with Caleb's eyes fixed on her (she had no idea what was so damn entertaining, unless he was simply gloating), but with a bit of luck, she could slide it deeper into the toe. As she guided her foot out with one hand, she quickly slid her other hand in to ease the paper down and in. Once her foot popped free, Caleb seemed to lose interest and turned his attention toward the boats lining the riverbank, and Tabitha seized the opportunity to fish the letter out and stuff it into her shirt. The paper was, against all odds, remarkably dry, and Caleb turned back just as she finished readjusting the stiff fabric.

"I swear, if I lose a foot to frostbite…" she began threateningly.

"Do they hurt?"

Tabitha glanced at her toes as she stretched them again in the fire's warmth. "Stings a bit, yeah."

"Good, they're fine, then," Caleb said with such an obvious air of relief that Tabitha had to grin.

"Of course they are, you clod," she sighed. "It's the middle of the day, and all's I've got is a soggy boot." She nudged one of her muddy boots with the tip of her toe, inching it closer to the fire. Both her feet and boots would require a good scrubbing before long, but for now, she was content letting them dry by the low-burning flames.

Caleb's mouth twitched in a half-smile. "Wish I could tell ya to stay away from boats for the resta the war," he said with a shake of his head. "Next time, I migh' not be there to keep ya dry, an' the last thing we need is you draggin' a few of ours in with ya."

Tabitha's eyebrows rose, and she stared open-mouthed at the whaler with an expression of amused indignation. "I'll consider it a blessing, Brewster," she replied with a laugh. "Especially considering the fact that _you_ knocked me in the mud to begin with!"

"I didn' let ya fall in the river, at least," he added, and her eyes immediately moved to where the pole was still protruding from the water. "Are ya always that unsteady 'round boats?"

"Wouldn't know," she replied curtly. "Never went near 'em after…" she paused, catching herself mid-sentence. "Aaron didn't think it safe, with me feeling sick and all."

Saying Aaron's name aloud seemed to have a numbing effect on her body. The fire felt far away now, and a languid chill began to ease through her limbs. She felt distant, almost; disconnected, even, as she stared into the flames. And yet, something in the back of her mind was screaming at the weakness she felt. She'd already made a fool of herself in front of Caleb on the boat—the last thing she needed was to tear up in front of him at the mere mention of Aaron's name.

"How did he die?" Caleb asked, effectively snapping Tabitha out of her reverie.

"Who?" Tabitha asked, careful to keep her voice steady, looking anywhere but at the man next to her. "Aaron?"

Caleb's face had lost its last hint of playfulness, and was replaced by a mixture of curiosity and (it sickened Tabitha to see) sympathy. "I know why ya came to my tent last night, molly," he said, watching Tabitha's carefully composed face harden as she stared into the flames. "You're not the only one in the camp who's had dreams like that. I know what it's like to lose someone, and believe me, it's not somethin' ya just get over."

"I noticed that, thank you," Tabitha said stiffly.

"It helps to talk about them," he continued, and shrugged when Tabitha turned to look at him. "Can't have ya goin' to pieces on me, now can I?"

Tabitha said nothing. Caleb was clearly more intelligent than she'd initially thought, but that didn't make the situation any less uncomfortable. Father Michael notwithstanding, she had spoken to no one about Aaron's fate. Or what she assumed to be his fate, in any case. And while she had never 'gone to pieces' on anyone before, that didn't mean there hadn't been close calls.

"I don't know," Tabitha said, as Caleb made to stand after a few minutes. When he looked up at her in surprise, she continued, "I don't know how he died. Only that he did. I can feel it."

"What happened?"

"It's a long story," she said, and Caleb shrugged.

"Got nothin' else to do," he said. "Tell me."

Tabitha's eyes locked on a small piece of wood half-buried in the dirt, and felt it consume her vision as her mouth began moving of its own accord. "Everything that happened is my fault," she began. "Aaron wasn't supposed to fight. Initially, he didn't care one way or the other. If the English won, or if the rebels won, he knew it would make no difference for people like us. But I disagreed.

"I went to Connecticut with Sister Bridget very early in 1774. She had family in Hartford, and Father Michael thought it would be a good opportunity for me to… exercise my social graces, as it were. My manners were deplorable when I was growing up, and I had made something of a spectacle of myself in Baltimore. He thought a fresh start would be good for me, though I think he was secretly hoping I would find myself a respectable husband before heading down the path of spinsterdom."

Caleb had settled back to the ground, and was regarding her with a keen interest that made her mildly uncomfortable. She cleared her throat before speaking again, "It was there, a few weeks after arriving, that I met Ben." This really seemed to pique Caleb's interest, and Tabitha shifted uncomfortably. "Sister Bridget's nephew was attending school in Weathersfield—the same school in which Ben worked. We were introduced by Bridget's sister-in-law, and after a few months, I wrote to Aaron with my decision to remain in Connecticut with him.

"Ben was initially reluctant to join the Continental army, but I did my best to whisper in his ear and persuade him the way women do. Whether it was that or the letters from his college friends that finally convinced him, I'm not sure. But when he was commissioned, I was overjoyed." A small smile graced her face momentarily, and she shook her head.

"I wrote to Aaron, and to everyone else I knew with the news. I guess it became the gossip of the town. 'Aaron McKenna's sister is to marry a Continental Dragoon!' Aaron was happy for me, of course, but when he wrote me back, he barely mentioned the engagement. He was concerned by my determination to accompany Ben wherever he went. He knew me better than anyone, you see, and knew I was not a woman who would be content to wash uniforms and cook meals."

"Is that why he joined, then?" Caleb asked.

Tabitha glanced up from the fire, the light from the flames playing softly across her face. "It is," she said softly. "He said that if the rebels lost—something he had said they would do on multiple occasions—then I, as the wife of a captain, would be punished alongside my husband. I think, as time went on, he began to develop more patriotic sensibilities, but it was his concern for my wellbeing that made him join initially."

Caleb winced. "So what happened to him?"

"That, I don't know," Tabitha admitted, turning her boots with her toes to ensure even drying. "Sounds terrible, doesn't it? I know in my heart he's dead, but I've never seen his body. Never found anyone from the regiment either. He sent a letter saying they were overrun, and he doubted the British were taking prisoners. Officers, perhaps, but Aaron wasn't an officer. I'm sure they hanged him. I don't think he would have been shot. He wasn't important enough to… to waste…"

She tried to finish her sentence, but the words were stuck in her throat, and she realized with a belated wave of humiliation that her cheeks were wet. She quickly looked away from Caleb, hoping to preserve what little shred of her dignity remained intact, but the damage had been done. She expected some sarcastic remark from the whaler, or a comment on the sentimentality of women.

What she hadn't been expecting was the heavy, surprisingly warm hand clasping her shoulder, moments before a leather water flask was pressed into her hands. "Drink that," Caleb said, and Tabitha was strangely relieved not to hear any pity in his voice. "It'll help."

She did as she was told, and wasn't at all surprised to find the bottle half-filled with brandy instead of water, as she'd initially assumed. By the time she'd passed the flask back, she'd drained most of the contents in one long, desperate gulp. "Thank you," she rasped, running the back of her hand across her eyes. "I'm sorry for that."

"Don't be," Caleb said, clapping her once on the shoulder before swallowing the last of the brandy and climbing to his feet. "He's your brother, molly. I'd be worried if ya _didn't_ feel anythin'." Tabitha nodded, feeling the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth once again. "Are your boots dry yet? We still have some boats ta fix, you 'n me."

"They should be," she replied, scooting closer to inspect them.

"Well, hurry up and put em on. I'll get more resin. An' you'd best watch the fire this time." He yelled the last part over his shoulder, and Tabitha rolled her eyes.

As she leaned forward to pull one of her boots on, she felt the sharp corner of the letter pressing into her breast. She froze for a second, then, with a quick look over her shoulder, pulled it out from her shirt. The paper was dry, and had only dampened along the edge, where the was no ink to smear.

But there was no relief in this knowledge, and with a second glance back to where Caleb stood, she felt a wave of guilt accompanying the surge of affection she felt for the man. The paper trembled with her shaking hands, and before she could change her mind, she flung the paper into the fire.

There was a brief moment where it seemed the paper wouldn't burn, and that maybe she could still retrieve it. But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind, the parchment caught, and in a flash it was consumed by a miniature inferno.

"Molly!" Caleb shouted, startling Tabitha from her thoughts. "Get your lazy arse over here!" She hastily tugged on her boots, relishing the heat radiating from the leather as she hurried to join Caleb at the edge of the river. "Take this," he dropped a sack of resin into her arms, "and set it by the fire. I'll have more for ya, so hurry up."

The sacks were heavy, but Tabitha was careful not to let it show. She'd shown enough weakness to the man for one day, of which he'd been quite forgiving, but it was best to not push her luck. As the final sack landed beside the rest, she risked speaking. "Thank you, Caleb," she said, and continued in a rush before Caleb could add anything. "Pretending to be Aaron is easy enough, but it's… difficult. Hearing his name all the time, and knowing he's dead. So thank you. I owe you."

Caleb's face split into a wide grin. "_Is dócha nach bhfuil seans ar bith ann?_" he said, and Tabitha's jaw dropped in an almost comical, fish-like fashion.

"_Tá tú ainmhí!_" she shouted, but doubted the whaler had heard anything over his raucous laughter. With a long-suffering sigh, she began piling the amber-like chunks into the pot.

* * *

Irish translations:

_Chuala mé go roimh_ \- I've heard that before

_Tá, beagán_ \- Yes, a little

_Drochrath air_ \- Damn it

_Is dócha nach bhfuil seans ar bith ann?_ \- I suppose a ride is out of the question?

_Tá tú ainmhí!_ \- You're an animal


	16. Anticipation

_December 25__th__, 1776_

The clouds gathering ominously on the horizon were heavy with the promise of snow, and if the increased chill in the air was anything to go by, Tabitha estimated its arrival sometime in the early evening, if not sooner. Directly beneath her feet, the rhythmic rocking of the Durham boat had less of a nauseating effect than it had in the weeks prior, and she could only attribute her new "sea legs" to one Caleb Brewster.

Despite their first attempt ending in miserable failure, the Lieutenant had insisted in Tabitha's continued help in patching the boats, citing a Christmas deadline imposed by General Scott. Not that she really minded much anymore. If anything, Tabitha had come to look forward to their work on the boats, and had given up all pretences of trying to avoid the whaler and his ever-increasing workload in favor of simply meeting him at the river.

What few leaves were left clinging to the branches of the elms dotting the riverbank rustled soundlessly in the breeze, and Tabitha drew her coat tighter around her shivering frame before sliding her icy hands into her armpits. There was a clanging of metal on metal, and she looked up in time to see Caleb pulling the pots off the fire pit with a large branch. "How's it lookin' over there, molly?" he called, and Tabitha made an attempt at a nonchalant shrug.

"Dry," she answered simply. "Did Scott say what the boats're for?"

"If he did, he didn' say it to me," Caleb said. "C'mon over here and warm up."

Eagerly, Tabitha withdrew her hands from beneath her arms and clambered over the side of the boat, boots slipping slightly on the ice lining the bank. Relaxing by the fire was a comforting thought, and Caleb seemed to have a similar thought in mind. With the melting pots out of the way, he was free to stoke the fire and build it as high as he liked without fear of igniting the liquefied resin, and judging by the number of logs and branches he was piling on, Tabitha could only assume he was building a bonfire. However, once she was within the soothing radiance of the flames, Caleb decided he'd piled on enough wood and flopped none too gracefully on the ground next to her.

The snapping and popping of the wood was a comforting sound, and neither felt the need to speak. Behind them, Tabitha could hear the boats rocking gently in the current, along with the occasional crack of the ice creeping up along the wooden hulls. Just the thought of the icy water sent a chill up her spine, and Caleb tossed a fresh handful of sticks into the flames in response. "Cold?" he said, less a question than a shrewd observation, and Tabitha nodded as she scooted closer to the fire.

"Storm's coming," she said offhandedly, tilting her head slightly skywards.

"It's winter, molly," Caleb snorted. "Can't tell me yer surprised."

Tabitha shook her head as she rubbed her hands together. "Not surprised," she said. "The timing's terrible, is all. Billets up in a month, and supplies are low. Now this." She sighed softly and muttered, "As though the men needed another reason to leave." Caleb's answering silence was all the reply she needed. "How much longer can we hold out without a decent army, Brewster?"

"We'll make it somehow," Caleb said, rather unconvincingly in Tabitha's opinion. "I hear Scott's promisin' promotions an' pay raises ta anyone who chooses ta stay."

"I know," Tabitha replied automatically.

"Do ya, then?" Her eyes widened as she caught the suspicion in Caleb's voice, and felt her teeth click as she snapped her mouth shut. "How'd ya come by that knowledge?"

Color flooded her cheeks as she fixed her eyes on the ground, and she could feel his gaze boring into her head. "He… offered me a promotion," she answered, speaking slowly as she searched for the right words. "A full lieutenancy."

"An' why would he do that?"

Tabitha's neck cracked slightly as she turned to glare at the whaler. "You think I can't earn one?"

"'Course ya could earn one, but since ya've been here, all we've seen was those boys at the farm and that lunatic Sutton. Nothin' that Scott would wanna promote ya for, no matter how much ya butter 'im up." Tabitha's eyes dropped, and the smugness in Caleb's voice became more pronounced as he continued, "So, either he's taken a fancy to ya, or there's somethin' else."

"Something… else," Tabitha muttered hesitantly, suddenly very much aware of the contrast between the heat of the flames and the chill at her back. She pushed her way to standing, wincing at the pins-and-needles sensation spreading up from her foot to her calf as she turned her back to the fire. "He's not stupid, you know," she said finally, still avoiding meeting the whaler's eyes.

"Never said he was."

"You didn't have to." Caleb grinned, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he waited for her to continue. "He wants Mr. Woodhull's name. And he offered a promotion if I was able to give it to him."

Caleb's grin faltered slightly, and he tilted his head to the side, studying her carefully. "And?" he prompted. "Did ya sell Woody out, then?"

"No," she replied, a bit more forcefully than she'd intended. "Scott knows I'm not close to you and Ben, so even if I _had_ planned on giving him any information, I couldn't do it without revealing I had met the man."

"All ya had to do was say ya overheard us," he said, frowning. "So why didn' ya?"

Tabitha's mouth fell open a fraction, and for a moment, all she could do was stare. "Are you suggesting I should have told him?" she asked incredulously.

Caleb shrugged. "I'd prefer ya didn', but if it was me in yer place, I probably woulda given him somethin'."

The fire gave a particularly loud pop, and Tabitha was momentarily distracted as she glanced around the riverbank. When she turned back to the fire, Caleb hadn't moved. "What is it you want, Brewster?" she asked finally. "He made the offer, and I turned it down. What more is there to say?"

"Ya could tell me why."

Tabitha's eyes narrowed as she met Caleb's defiant stare with one of her own. "You think I'm still considering it," she shot back. "If you must know, I didn't tell him because I think he's a mediocre general, and that's the highest I will ever speak of him. Reluctant as I am to admit this, I believe you and Ben will eventually surpass him—if not in rank, then in reputation. If Mr. Woodhull is half as competent as you seem to think he is, this spy ring may bring about a turning point in this war."

"An' if it doesn't?"

"Whether it succeeds is not important," she countered. "As I said, Scott is far from remarkable. In time, men like him will simply fade into obscurity."

For a moment, it seemed Caleb had more to add, but with a grin, he leaned back onto his elbows and shook his head. "I thought Tall-boy was cracked, trustin' ya."

"Ben? Trusting _me?_" A short bark of a laugh escaped Tabitha's mouth before she could stop it. "Ben wouldn't trust me with his _supper_, let alone any matter of real importance, and he's wise not to."

"Call me a fool, then."

"Are you saying _you_ trust me?" Tabitha asked, eyes narrowing slightly in disbelief.

"'Course I do," Caleb replied nonchalantly. "Ya say you're in it for the money, and here ya are, turnin' down an offer from Scott on the off chance Benny and me migh' do better. If that ain't _you_ trustin' _us_, I dunno what is. Least I could do is return the favor."

Tabitha's breath fogged in front of her in the wake of a soft laugh, and she lowered herself back to sit on the ground. "You _are _a fool."

"Ya put on a tough act, molly," he said, reaching for his discarded bag and rifling through it almost offhandedly. "Pretendin' ya don't care about anythin' but money an' all. Thing is, I've seen people like that, and they're a damn sorry piece of work." He withdrew his hand from the bag, the leather brandy-flask clutched in his hand. "Thirsty?" he asked, before taking a long pull from the bottle.

Tabitha shrugged, and held out her hand for the proffered flask. The liquid sloshed as she brought it to her mouth, noting with a strange twist of her stomach the noticeable warmth of the bottle lip from where Caleb had drank moments before. A pleasant heat radiated through her core as the brandy made its way through her veins, and she passed the flask back to the whaler. "It's Christmas," she said finally, as Caleb took another long drink.

"Is it?" Caleb replied, voice slightly breathless from the burn of the brandy. Tabitha half-shrugged, and held out her hand for the flask again. "First time alone, then?" he commented, passing the bottle.

She didn't answer, and honestly didn't need to. Caleb's face was a picture of understanding in her peripheral vision as she took a swig from the bottle, grateful for the burn as the brandy flooded her throat. The last thing she needed to be thinking about was Aaron, and reflecting on past Christmases with him was only going to cause a repeat of the last time the whaler brought his name up. She made to pass the flask back, but Caleb shook his head and pushed her hand back.

"Keep it," he said. "Ya need it more than I do." When Tabitha frowned, puzzled, he grinned. "_Nollaig shona duit_."

"_Go raibh maith agat_," she replied, a faint smile playing on the corners of her mouth. "Here, I have something for you." The bag she pulled from her waist pouch was small, but to be fair, the rabbit had been rather small as well. "Jerked rabbit. Not much meat on any of 'em this time of year, but it'll do."

Caleb laughed as she tossed him the small pouch, catching it effortlessly in one hand. "Watch it, Tabby-cat, I might fall in love!" he said, stuffing the pouch into his coat pocket.

"I stand by my words, Brewster," Tabitha said, taking a final swig of brandy before pocketing the half-empty flask. "You _are_ a fool!"

The fire had burned low by the time Tabitha noticed the growing darkness, and realized how close she and Caleb had moved to the smoldering pile of embers. Shoulders pressed flush together, she could feel the small shivers wracking the whaler's body as sure as the ones in her own. The wind had picked up significantly in the hours since the sun set, and though she couldn't be sure in the dark, Tabitha thought she felt the telltale sting of snowflakes in the air.

"Should I put another log on, or…?" She let her sentence trail off, shrugging her coat tighter around her body.

"Nah," Caleb grunted, slowly getting to his feet before offering Tabitha a hand. She accepted gratefully, and allowed herself to be pulled unceremoniously to her feet. "Benny'll be wonderin' where I've got to. Said I'd meet 'im tonight. Got some whiskey I think he'll want." Tabitha laughed and shook her head as Caleb began kicking dirt over the coals. "Yer welcome ta come, if ya want."

"Is it a like a tradition, then?" Tabitha said, grinning. "You giving alcohol? 'Merry' Christmas, indeed."

"Nah, not really," he replied, emptying one of the water pots over the fire pit. "Only fer the people I like." A cloud of steam briefly obscured Caleb's face, and cleared just long enough for Tabitha to catch the lack of his usual devilish smirk before he dumped another pot. The second cloud was a welcome warmth on her face for maybe a second, but the resulting dampness left her nose and cheekbones feeling as though they'd been pressed with ice. "That'll do for now, I s'pose," Caleb muttered after what felt like ages. "If the forest catches, at least we'll be warm." Tabitha nodded her assent, and quickly started toward the fires glowing in the distance. She could hear Caleb collecting the last of his belongings before the sounds of snapping twigs and shifting pebbles announced his presence behind her. "Tall-boy'll be happy to see ya," he said casually, taking a few brisk steps to walk alongside her. "If yer comin', that is."

"No," Tabitha said, huddling closer to Caleb's warmth as they walked. "I'll be returning to my tent. It is Christmas, after all."

"Ah, right," Caleb said with sudden realization. "Yer Irish. That'll make ya Catholic, then?"

Tabitha nodded. "Thank you for the offer," she replied, "but I'm sure you'll have a better time without Ben and I at each other's throat."

"Nah, I wouldn' say that." Caleb grinned widely and gave Tabitha a playful nudge on the shoulder. "Watchin' the two o' ya go at it is the funniest thing I've ever seen."

"Well, I'm glad we can provide you the entertainment," Tabitha chuckled, clapping a hand against his arm. "Good night, Caleb," she said with a smile. "And thank you for the brandy."

Caleb seemed momentarily struck dumb, but recovered as soon as she began walking toward her tent. "'Night, Tabby," he replied, shaking his head as she waved dismissively over her shoulder, not even bothering to turn around. "Merry Christmas."

Tabitha let out a long sigh of relief as she ducked inside her tent which, although not much warmer than the outside, gave a merciful reprieve from the wind. She made a beeline for the small box under her cot, fingers fumbling awkwardly with the latch as she fought back shivers. Fortunately, she'd had the foresight to fill the stove before meeting Caleb that morning, and after a few quick strikes of her knife against the chunk of flint, a small fire sprang gradually to life amid the tinder. Several candles were tucked in the box next to a small holder, but after replacing the flint, she decided against lighting them and instead pushed the box back under her cot, then curled her legs beneath her as she sat on the thin mattress. She wouldn't need the light, anyways.

Nestled at the bottom of her waist pouch was the one item she had been unable to leave in Baltimore. Easily mistaken for a simple strand of pearls, and just as easily written off as a token of affection, Tabitha had been unable to part with the rosary since the day it was given to her. She'd heard the story numerous times as a girl; the beautiful tale of her grandfather trudging through rivers and lakes for over a year, searching for just the right pearls to make a beautiful rosary for the girl he'd planned on marrying. Despite the fact that the girl's parents hated him, the rosary had clearly helped win their approval because before the year was up, Tabitha's mother was born.

It was in those times that Tabitha often wondered what her mother had looked like. Her father had always described her in the same loving, but frustratingly vague way—focusing more on her gentle heart and fiery temper than the black hair and almond eyes she had passed on to both her children. And though she couldn't possibly have any way of remembering, every time Tabitha's fingertips caressed the misshapen, uneven surfaces of the pearls, the image of a woman's smile came to her mind's eye—an smile she'd long since began telling herself belonged to her mother.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,_" she whispered, fingers brushing across her forehead and shoulders as the beads dangled between the fingers of her left hand.

The wind seemed to slow outside the tent, or perhaps it had simply changed direction again. The whistling was fainter now, and the rustling of the tent flap all but stopped.

"_Credo in Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae…"_

It would almost certainly be snowing by now, if the clouds were anything to go by. The river would likely be frozen over by morning if the temperature kept falling.

"…_inde venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos."_

The pearls were warm in her hands. The memory of Caleb's shoulder pressed against hers as they huddled around the dying fire rose unbidden from her mind, and she gave her head a terse shake.

"_Pater noster, Qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen Tuum."_

As the familiar words continued past her lips, a sense of tranquility pooled in her limbs, and as he body relaxed, she felt her mind begin to follow suit. The sounds of the encampment faded, and other than the her whispered prayer and the rustling of pearls, all was silent.

After some time—maybe an hour, perhaps more; she wasn't entirely sure—something pulled her out of her reverie. For a moment, she wasn't sure what had startled her. The sound of men outside her tent was considerably louder than it had been earlier, their voices louder and somewhat more enthused than she'd heard in quite some time.

Before she had the chance to investigate, however, the flap to her tent was yanked back. From what she could make out of his face in the darkness, the man was around twenty years her senior, and his weathered face seemed frozen in a permanent frown. "McKenna!" he snapped, and Tabitha scrambled to her feet, giving her beads a final squeeze before tucking them hastily in her waist pouch.

"Sir?"

"The men are assembling at the river," he said simply, and Tabitha briefly wondered if she could pull off a passable imitation of man's raspy bark of a voice. "You will be reporting directly to Captain Tallmadge."

"For what, sir?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.

She wasn't disappointed. "You will direct any questions to Captain Tallmadge," was the vague and wholly unhelpful reply. "Password challenge is 'Victory'. Answer, 'or death.'"

"That helps," Tabitha grumbled as the man left, briskly as he had come. The sounds of men clamoring about just outside her tent grew steadily louder, and she felt her heart hammering in her chest in anticipation of what was to come.


	17. Push

As she stumbled all but blindly through the mist, Tabitha quickly realized she was (thankfully) not the only one to receive ambiguous orders. If the whispers and mutters and hopeful glances in her direction were anything to go by, the rest of the men had probably been told less than she, if at all possible.

Still, all were armed, and all were moving about with a new vigor in their steps, likely stemming from apprehension. And while Tabitha wouldn't exactly describe her newfound energy as coming from a state of uneasiness, she still found herself repeatedly running her fingertips over the various weapons on her person. She could already feel the knives secreted away in her boots, and the long hunting knife at her waist was the first she rested her hand on. Infinitely more useful, in her opinion, than the sword strapped to her hip, it was her weapon of choice in almost every form of combat.

The pistols were her least favorite, and it was with a small wave of annoyance that she ghosted her hand over the wooden grip of the infernal contraption. Loud, inaccurate, slow, dangerous, and bulky. If it weren't for weapons and dress standards in the army, she would have chosen to forego them entirely in favor of her bow, which she shouldered with an undeniable fondness. The quiver of arrows on her back had earned her more than a few odd looks, but she would not separate from them for anything less than a direct order. Muskets and rifles had always been a luxury her family could not afford, and bows and arrows were much easier and more affordable to fashion at home.

She heard Caleb long before she actually saw him; his voice seemed to echo in the stillness of the night, and whether its familiarity or its volume made it more discernible, she wasn't sure. Nonetheless, she made a beeline for the riverbank, where muskets and swivel guns and any other weapons in reach were being loaded haphazardously into the Durham boats.

"Brewster!" she called, waving her arm briefly in an attempt to catch the whaler's attention. "Brewster!"

Caleb's grip slipped on the swivel gun momentarily, recovering a second after he recognized the voice calling to him. "What're ya just standin' around fer, molly?" he replied. "Get yer arse over here an' help, wouldya?" Tabitha snorted and wove her way through the small crowd, face coloring slightly as Caleb spoke up again, "Outta the way, ya shite," he snapped. "Tha's yer lieutenant right there!"

The unfortunate boy between the two officers mumbled a hasty apology, and scurried off. "That," Tabitha pointed out, "was unnecessary."

Caleb gave a noncommittal shrug. "Just lookin' out for the lady's wellbein'," he said with a wink, loud enough for Tabitha to hear, but inaudible to anyone else over the noise from the boats.

Tabitha's nose wrinkled slightly in disgust. "Lemme show ya "the lady's" appreciation by shovin' me fist in yer fat gob," she hissed. "Christ, Brewster, yer gonna be the death o' me someday."

The whaler's only response was a raucous laugh, followed by several muskets dropped unceremoniously into Tabitha's arms. "Well, until then…" He dropped a power horn on the already-tedious load and smirked. "Git yer arse movin, molly!"

Tabitha rolled her eyes as she turned back toward the boats, and Caleb's footsteps faded behind her as he jogged over to join a group of boys carrying a swivel gun. "Here, Lieutenant," said a man beside her, extending his arms for the muskets as he stood in the boat. "I'll take those."

"Thank you, Edwards," Tabitha said, passing her load to him one gun at a time. "Heard anything?" she added.

"Nothing, sir," he replied. "Scouting mission, most likely. The Captain'll know more."

"One can only hope," Tabitha replied, rubbing her shoulder. "Move aside. There won't be room for anyone in there, at this rate." Edwards stepped back obediently as Tabitha swung her leg over the edge and hoisted herself aboard. "Quite a lot of weaponry for a scouting mission," she muttered.

"Sir?" he replied, frowning.

"It's nothing," she corrected herself hastily. "Precautionary measures, is all." She frowned again as soon as Edwards reached out for the next load of weapons. Precautionary it may very well be, but for such a cold night—and a Christmas night, at that—such precaution was more than unnecessary for a scouting mission.

"Sir, some help here?" Tabitha was snapped out of her thoughts, and hurried to assist with the loading of a particularly heavy swivel gun. Much more than unnecessary, indeed.

"Caleb!"

Tabitha froze as Ben's voice rang out. Caleb seemed a bit more than exasperated in his response, however, as he shot back with "What?"

"You know what this is all about?"

Tabitha heard an exasperated sigh from her left. She glanced at Edwards, arching an eyebrow in silent question. "He doesn't know either," Edwards whispered, and Tabitha shook her head. Of course he didn't.

"Me? No." Caleb called back with a scoff. "Thought you would!"

Edwards met Tabitha's gaze once more, and both rolled their eyes dramatically. "This looks promising," Tabitha whispered.

"All they told me is we're crossing the Delaware," Ben said, sounding every bit as confused as Tabitha felt.

"Great." Caleb gave an amused huff as he was passed another swivel gun. "They just told us to follow you. Molly!" he shouted as an afterthought.

"What?"

"C'mere a second!" Tabitha didn't bother suppressing her groan of annoyance, and shared an exasperated look with Edwards before clambering back out of the boat. "They say anythin' different to ya?" Caleb asked as soon as she joined them.

Tabitha shook her head. "You outrank me, Brewster," she replied shortly. "What're they likely to tell me that they haven't mentioned to you?"

Caleb's smirk was answer enough. "Well, seein' how General Scott is so madly in love with ya, thought ya mighta heard somethin' on one of yer late-night meetin's." He accentuated his statement with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, and Tabitha's mouth fell open.

"Rot in hell, Brewster!" she snapped, hurling a discarded powder horn into his face. Caleb seemed more amused than injured, and Tabitha would have followed it up with a punch if it hadn't been for Ben's interruption.

"Lieutenant McKenna!" he snapped, and Tabitha automatically lowered a fist she hadn't remembered raising, while Caleb desperately tried to stifle his laughter. "Good to see your balance has improved around the water," he commented finally, and Tabitha shrugged.

"Brewster and I patched these boats ourselves," she said. "I should certainly _hope_ it's improved."

"Bit, but not much," Caleb added. "Don' look at me like that, molly. Say what ya want, but yer no fish, and ya never will be. So yer sittin' next ta me."

"The _hell_ I am!" she snapped. "You'll push me in!"

"_One_ time, molly, and ya know it wasn' on purpose!"

"Is that supposed to improve my trust in you?"

Ben groaned as he climbed into the boat, Tabitha right behind him despite her loud protests. "Will you two _stop_?" he said finally. "You bicker like an elderly couple at the market!" This seemed to shut Tabitha up, and she crossed her arms in a huff as she sat next to Caleb, who grinned maniacally as she pointedly avoided looking at him.

"Well, you're the whaler," Ben said with an air of resignation. "As long as we're crossing, he's captain!" he added to the rest of the men.

"That's me!" Caleb said, hopping to his feet. "So you," he pointed to one man. "You," Another. "And you," he pointed to Tabitha.

"Me?"

"Grab the push-poles. Alright?" Tabitha muttered under her breath, but did as she was instructed. "Push off!"

Tabitha's pole caught on the frozen bank and with a forceful shove, and after a few subsequent pushes through the water, they were off.

Following the examples of the men beside her, Tabitha deposited her pole alongside the others, and took her seat beside Caleb. She sat for a few moments in silence, pulling one of the spare blankets across her shoulders, then risking a glance at the whaler's face.

One look told her everything she needed to know. Caleb looked every bit as unsure as she felt, and Ben looked much sure of himself than usual. "Any idea where we're off to, then?" she said at last, and Caleb shook his head.

"No, but I doubt it matters," he replied with a huff. When Tabitha cocked her head quizzically, he continued, "I mean, you ask me, this is just a glorified scout."

"You think it's nothing, then?" Tabitha asked softly.

"Course I do," Caleb said. "Secret password, 'Victory or death'? No, Washington's just tryin' to make us feel like we're still in the fight."

Tabitha pulled a knee to her chest. "If it's reenlistments he's after, I doubt this is the best way to go about it," she muttered. "It's cold as death out here."

"Caleb, look."

Tabitha and Caleb both looked toward their captain, then to where his eyes were fixed. Tabitha's mouth fell slightly open as Caleb got to his feet as well. The fog had dissipated enough to see ahead of them, and it was with a shock that both lieutenants realized they were not alone.

"Jesus," Caleb breathed, and Tabitha found herself echoing the sentiment. There were easily twenty boats she could see from where she sat, and even with the fog obscuring her vision past the last one, she felt certain there were more.

"This is no scout," Ben said simply, and Tabitha felt something leap in her chest. Her mouth twisted into a smile, and she felt Caleb shift next to her as he sat back down.

"Yer scarin' me, molly," he muttered, and Tabitha scoffed.

"I haven't said anything," she replied, forcing her face into a more relaxed expression nonetheless. "It's exciting, though," she added as an afterthought. "We haven't seen any real combat in awhile."

Ben took his seat on Caleb's opposite side and grabbed another discarded blanket. "_You_ haven't, in any case," he corrected. "I believe Sutton was the closest you came to actual war in the short time you've been with us."

"Which is why I'm looking forward to whatever lies across the river," Tabitha said. "If we don't freeze before we arrive, that is."

Ben wrapped the blanket a bit tighter around his shoulders in a wordless agreement. "If this is supposed to be a surprise, Washington's picked a perfect night for it," he said. "Snow, fog, the cover of darkness…" He turned to Caleb. "What is it you sailors say?" he asked. "'Fair weather brings cloudy weather'?"

"That's uplifting," Tabitha muttered.

"Maybe this time, it'll be the reverse," Ben said as though he hadn't heard Tabitha speak.

"Or maybe the fog will lift," Caleb replied, "and there'll just be more fog." Ben looked slightly put out at that, and Caleb chuckled softly.

Finally, the words Tabitha had been longing to hear were spoken. "We're here," a man towards the front said.

"All right," Ben said, shrugging off the blanket almost reluctantly. "On your feet, men."

Tabitha felt her heart race as the boat began to rock. Caleb had been right—she may have been steadier on the boat, but she would likely never be completely comfortable. Instinctively, her hand shot up to curl itself in the blue hem of Ben's coat, intent on pulling him back down if need be. Something about his insistence on standing in a moving boat made her deeply uncomfortable.

"Everyone, check your flints," he was saying, when the boat gave another almighty lurch. Tabitha's fingers tightened in his coat, and her knuckles stood out stark against her tanned hands.

"Move back, you're tippin' her!" Caleb snapped, and Tabitha felt the pit drop from her stomach.

One moment, Ben was standing, barking orders at the men, and the next was a blur. Caleb had called out, and Tabitha thought she may have as well. Ben's feet lid out from beneath him, and with a cry of surprise, he went feet-first into the icy water.

"Ben, no!" Caleb shouted, echoed by Tabitha's own borderline-hysteric shouts. "Ben!"

"Ben!" Tabitha was half-out of the boat by the time Caleb saw her, frantically reaching for any part of the captain she could reach. It was Caleb who finally got a semi-decent grip on his friend's arm, but it wasn't enough. He could feel the panic rising in his throat as Ben's arm slipped from his grasp, and his head dipped under the surface.

Then there was a second splash, and with a twist in his gut, he saw her. Waist-deep in the water along the shoreline, face paler than he'd ever seen it, pulling Ben up from the water and pushing him toward the boat. "Pull him!" she shrieked.

Two sharp tugs was all it took and Ben was out of the water, shivering violently and soaked to the bone. Tabitha climbed back onto the shore, shivering and dripping from the waist down, and hurried to where Caleb was bundling Ben in every blanket he could get his hands on. "Someone get a fire started!" he shouted, voice raw and desperate as he shook his friend. "C'mon, Benny, yer alright. Stay with me…"


	18. Pull

The next few minutes were a blur to Tabitha. Ben was alive, but for how much longer, she wasn't sure. Most of the men had gone ahead, leaving herself, Caleb, and a few others behind to gather wood for a fire. Caleb had been unwilling to leave Ben's side, shaking him and calling to him—anything to keep him awake. Ben's sodden clothes had been carelessly discarded on the ground, and the captain was wrapped in what looked like every blanket the company had brought with them.

"Yer not goin' on me like this, ya dumb bastard!" Caleb growled, and Tabitha could see Ben's eyes fluttering as he fought to keep them open. "Ya hear me?" His voice was bordering on frantic, and every other word was punctuated by a harsh slap to Ben's face. "You stay awake, all right? Look at me!"

Ben's eyes slid shut, and Tabitha felt her heart clench. Only two kind thoughts concerning him had crossed her mind in the entire time she had been with the Second Regiment, and while she could usually bring his negative qualities to mind with relative ease, she suddenly found she couldn't do so. Memories of his laughter filled her mind, and with it came his easy smile and the smell of his clothes and the calming air he'd always had about him. And then came the sickening realization.

She couldn't lose him.

With that thought bearing at the forefront of her mind, she sped off into the nearby woods. She'd seen the cold take people before, and while there was often little to be done, the least she could do was help gather enough wood to keep the fire burning for as long as it took.

Fortunately, the ground was littered with fallen sticks and branches, likely from heavy snowfall in the previous weeks. Hurriedly, and all the while ignoring the biting cold traveling up from her legs and midsection, she began tossing all the wood she could find into a pile.

However, focused as she was on her task, she wasn't entirely sure when the forest floor started spinning. Perhaps if she ignored it, just kept moving, it would stop on its own. A sudden feeling of vertigo was inching into her body, and the more she stooped to gather sticks, the more it intensified, until she was thrust back into the memory of a forest in Maryland, a screaming child, and the dizziness that had consumed her when her head collided with the stone at the bottom of the ditch.

"_Bhí sé ina aisling,"_ she whispered, the words feeling strange and awkward in her mouth. "Just a dream."

She felt intoxicated. The faintest hints of dawn were streaking through the sky, but the shadows around her still obscured everything beyond the clearing. Unlike her dream, where there had been no moon, no stars, no hint of the night ever coming to an end. The branch she held slipped from her shaking hands, and she stumbled as she made a belated attempt to catch it.

"Molly?" The sound was familiar, but she couldn't place it. Was it a voice? Where had she heard it? What was it saying?

There was a rustling just beyond the shadows, and Tabitha instinctively reached for her bow. The hickory-backed oak was familiar under her fingers, but clumsy. She could barely feel her hands, nor could she remember nocking the arrow and drawing back the string. The noise from the trees grew louder, until Tabitha felt surrounded by rustling leaves and snapping twigs, and _Christ_, there was something out there, she just couldn't_see it…_

"Molly! What the hell're ya doin'?"

Caleb. Only Caleb. A wave of relief crashed over Tabitha, but she did not lower her bow. _"Chuala mé torann,"_ she said, nodding toward the trees behind him.

Caleb approached slowly, as one would approach a frightened horse. "Christ, molly, yer pale as death!" he breathed. "The fire's goin'. C'mere before ya freeze!"

"Ben?" she asked, fingers shaking. _"An bhfuil sé beo?"_

"He's alright, but you sure as hell aren't," Caleb said. "Yer soaked."

Tabitha nodded slowly. _"Tá mé fuar,"_ she whispered.

"_Tá a fhios agam,"_ he replied slowly. _"Tar suí ag an tine."_

His words finally seemed to sink in, and she loosened her grip. The whaler immediately leapt to the side with an alarmed shout, and she frowned, confused. Jumping to the ground was a strange thing to do, she thought, watching Caleb pick himself up from the ground. Then she saw his hand. Her frown deepened, as she wondered how he managed to swipe one of her arrows. "Blood," she managed finally, tongue feeling like a lump of stone in her mouth. "Yer bleedin'."

She had half-reached for another arrow when Caleb's voice snapped through her mind, "Lieutenant McKenna!" Her back stiffened slightly, and her hand froze. "Lower yer weapon!"

The arrow fell from her trembling fingers, and for a moment, the ground stopped spinning. "Brewster," she whispered. "I think… somethin' isna right…" Her bow was tugged from her hand, and she felt heat spreading through her torso as Caleb draped his heavy coat over her shoulders._Strange_, she thought, unable to recall the coat being so heavy before. Then they were moving. Or Caleb was, in any case. His feet were moving, and he felt so very _warm_, and she must have been moving too, because they were back at camp again, and she was being lowered back onto the ground next to Ben.

Ben… That name was important somehow…

The warmth was gone as suddenly as it came, and Tabitha made a drunken swipe for the coat Caleb had tossed aside. "…get these wet clothes offa ya," he was saying, voice far away. "…warm ya up." She didn't know whether or not she nodded. Somewhere in her mind, he was making sense, but her limbs felt as though they'd been filled with lead, and for the life of her, she couldn't move to obey.

But someone was moving her legs for her, gently undressing her as though she were a child, wrapping each exposed limb in blankets as he went. As her shirt was tugged over her head, she felt warm fingers running along her stomach, tracing the thick, knotted scars marring her flesh, and Caleb's voice spoke from far away, "Christ, Tabby-cat, what happened to ya?"

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she was wrapped in blankets from head to toe, shivering as she twined herself around the radiating heat source next to her. In the back of her mind, she knew wrapping her naked body around a similarly-clad Caleb Brewster was not something she would ever consciously allow, but he was so _warm_, and her blood was flowing through her veins like water in the icy Delaware, and she could see Ben's trembling, pale form on the whaler's other side, _alive._ With that realization, suddenly nothing seemed to matter, and with a deep sigh of contentment, she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Notes:

Google!translations:  
Bhí sé ina aisling - It was a dream.  
Chuala mé torann - I heard a noise.  
An bhfuil sé beo? - Is he alive?  
Tá mé fuar - I'm cold.  
Tá a fhios agam - I know  
Tar suí ag an tine - Come sit by the fire.


	19. Trenton

_July, 1776, Maryland_

The air was thicker than she'd ever remembered, and the blanket pulled over her body might as well have weighed a ton. Her body was burning from the inside out, and though she was dimly aware of the shivers shooting through her limbs, for all she knew, they could have belonged to someone else.

"_Rop tú mo baile, a Choimdiu cride,__  
__ní ní nech aile acht Rí secht nime."_

Someone was singing, whether from far away or at her bedside, she couldn't be sure. The words were soft, but seemed to envelop her like the blanket she vainly struggled to escape. After a few minutes of gathering her thoughts, she forced her eyes to open, and immediately wished she hadn't.

The room was blurry, and the flickering light from what she could only assume was a candle was too much. The walls seemed to bend and flex in the shadows, and for one nauseating moment, she feared she would vomit.

She let her eyes slide shut again, and slowly felt the world slow to a halt. The overwhelming heat felt distant now, and all she could register in her mind was the welcoming presence of the pillow under her head and the mattress beneath her body.

As she as she slipped back into unconsciousness, she finally put a name to the voice singing softly beside her, and if Aaron heard his name whispered into the darkness, she didn't hear his reply.

"_Rop tú mo scrútain i l-ló 's i n-aidche,__  
__rop tú ad-chëar im chotlud caidche."_

* * *

_December, 1776, New Jersey_

The first sensation Tabitha noticed upon her return to consciousness was the pressure in her forehead. Not quite throbbing, but reminiscent of the symptoms of a sinus infection. She had no memory of falling ill, however, nor had she any memory of excessive drinking in a considerable amount of time.

With a groan, she brought her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, and was suddenly aware of the sensation of the blanket pulling against her skin.

It had been a long time since she could recall ever being so comfortably warm. The wool blankets were heavy and rough against her skin, but they kept the heat in much better than the thin, threadbare ones she'd been accustomed to growing up. In the distance, she could hear the welcoming snapping of a fire in the hearth, and could only assume Aaron had stoked the flames while she slept.

"_Cén t-am é?"_ she murmured, rubbing her face as she finally opened her eyes. "Aaron?"

One look at the sleeping face beside her sent her tumbling headfirst back into reality with a strangled gasp. Ben. The river. The mission.

She was suddenly acutely aware of the wool caressing her naked form, and she instinctively clutched the blankets to her chest. Her dark hair was sweat-damp and curling slightly with the moisture, falling wild and unbound across her bare shoulders. Caleb had undressed her, she recalled vaguely. The memory was unclear, but the bite of the icy river was sharp in her mind. Slowly, she extended her hand towards Ben, and the air left her lungs in a relieved sigh as her fingertips brushed his face. His breath ghosted across her hand, shallow, but steady.

Still alive.

"Do that again, and I'll kill you myself," she whispered hoarsely. "Stupid son of a horse's arse."

Upon a second glance around the small camp, she realized Caleb was nowhere to be seen. Her clothes, however, were hanging from a nearby branch sticking out of the makeshift shelter they were currently lying under, and as far as she could tell in the darkness, they looked dry enough.

With a hiss as the cold air hit her skin, she quickly crawled out from under the blankets, sending several large stones she hadn't previously noticed tumbling across the ground. Teeth chattering, she pulled the long cotton shirt over her head, but the chill of the fabric did little to abate the shivers wracking her body.

She had just pulled her breeches free from the branch when she heard Caleb's heavy footsteps approaching from behind her. Grateful for the shirt covering everything above the knee, she still ducked a bit further behind the small shelter as he emerged from the woods, arms laden with firewood and a pair of rabbits.

"Good to see yer up and about," he said, dropping the firewood and setting the rabbits on his lap as he sat.

"How long was I asleep?" she asked as she pulled on her breeches. "It's still dark."

Caleb shrugged. "Almost a day," he said shortly. "Didn' think either of ya were gonna make it."

Tabitha shrugged as she came forward to retrieve her stockings. "I'm hardly that easy to kill, Brewster," she replied, sitting on the blankets as she resumed dressing. "The rest of the men will have moved on, I assume?"

Caleb gave a noncommittal grunt, and Tabitha glanced up at him, arching an eyebrow. "If there's something on your mind, say it," she said as she rolled her stockings over her calves. "Silence is one thing I never thought to associate with yo—"

"What," Caleb hissed suddenly, interrupting her rambling, "the _hell_ were ya thinkin?"

Tabitha frowned, taken aback by the sudden venom in his voice. "The river?" she asked, confused. "I wasn't _thinking_, Caleb, I just… acted. If you didn't have a grip on his arm, I imagine you would have done the same."

"Not the river," he snapped, tossing the rabbits carelessly aside as he stood. "Runnin' around the forest, drippin' wet! I thought ya were smarter than that. If I hadn'ta found ya…" He trailed off, shaking his head. Tabitha averted her eyes for a moment, and her gaze fell on his hand.

The wound was wrapped with a handkerchief, and the bloodstains looked black in the firelight. A recent injury, then, but not fresh. "You've hurt yourself," she said, rising to her knees as she reached for his hand. "How did this happen?"

Caleb pulled his hand back as though burned, but Tabitha was not so easily deterred, and caught his wrist in a tight grip. "Do that again, and I'll cut the other one."

"Once wasn' enough for ya, then?" he snorted, kneeling beside her as she pulled the cloth away and traced her fingertips along the edges of the wound.

"Once…?" She frowned at the peculiar phrasing, then looked back up, mortified. "_I_ did this?"

Caleb's smirk held little amusement as he pulled his hand back again. This time, she let him. "Yer one hell of a shot," he said with a shrug, and Tabitha winced, offering him the cloth again.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I… panicked."

Caleb said nothing as he got to his feet. As he returned to his seat on the log, he grabbed a pair of boots from beside the fire. "These'll be dry by now," he said, tossing them in Tabitha's direction.

They _were_ dry, she realized gratefully, and warm too. She felt some of the tension leave her legs as she uncurled her toes in the welcome heat. "The men went on without us," she muttered, reaching for the long strips of linen dangling next to her and Ben's waistcoats. "Where were they headed?"

Caleb paused for a moment, knife in hand as he maneuvered the first rabbit. "Trenton," he said finally, making the first cut in its hide.

"Trenton," she repeated, slowly winding the fabric across the swell of her breasts. "Why Trenton?" Caleb said nothing, but Tabitha thought she saw the barest hint of a smile briefly cross his face. "That's important to you somehow. Why?"

Something about her tone seemed to irritate him, though it was nowhere near as pronounced as it had been before. "I keep forgettin' how clever ya are, Tabby-cat," he said, pulling the skin from the first carcass. "Just somethin' Woody told us, is all."

"Woodhull?" she asked, tying off the linen with a sharp tug. "He's in Setauket. What would he know about Trenton?"

Caleb beckoned for her to join him by the fire, and she hurried over, shrugging on her waistcoat as she went. "Woody was in York City with his father while you lot were at the farm," he explained. "Came across a coupla Hessians, who let slip a thing or two about Trenton."

"So, the plan was to take the Hessians by surprise," Tabitha said, frowning. "I don't like it."

"Why not?"

Tabitha picked a small rock off the ground and passed it back and forth between her hands as she spoke. "If the Hessians were being stationed in Trenton during the winter, which is a sure indicator of future plans for a surprise attack, wouldn't that information be closely guarded? They could be walking into a trap."

"Yer startin' to sound like Scott," Caleb said with a wry smile.

"Shut yer gob, Brewster, I'm serious."

Caleb tossed her the gutted rabbit before grabbing the second by the ears. "Not much we can do 'bout it now," he said. "Just gotta wait fer Benny to come 'round."

"And do what?" Tabitha shot back. "Follow the men to Trenton? Even if they _are _still alive, are we even gonna have an army to rejoin? Billets are up, Brewster."

"Well, unless ya have a better idea…?" Caleb offered. "No? 's what I thought."

A sudden notion sparked in her mind, and Tabitha's mouth fell open. "Actually," she said, straightening her back slightly as she turned to fully face Caleb. "I _do_ have an idea." Caleb raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. "You said Mr. Woodhull got his information in York City."

"No."

"Miss Adams is there with her aunt," she continued, as though Caleb hadn't spoken.

"No."

"I could be there in a day. Maybe less if I ride hard."

"Lieutenant McKenna!" Caleb's voice had taken on a darker timbre, one she hadn't heard since the night before their departure to Setauket. "I said, no! Yer not goin ta York City."

"An' why not?" she exclaimed. "Miss Adams is well-connected! Ya said so yerself! Men're a helluvalot more likely ta spill their secrets aroun' a pretty girl than they would be with Mr. Woodhull!"

Caleb cut into the rabbit with a bit more force than he'd likely intended. "I'm not lettin' ya get Charlotte killed, alright?" he snapped. "Or yerself, for that matter. There's no way yer gettin' in the city without someone noticin' ya, an I didn' spend a whole bloody day nursin' yer arse just ta have ya hanged!"

For a moment, Tabitha said nothing. The fire crackled and snapped, and she could only stare as he skinned the rabbit in the dull light. If he noticed her gaze, he didn't show it. His eyes were focused solely on the task in front of him, and when Tabitha finally spoke, her voice was much softer than she'd intended. "I'm grateful for your help," she said. "I truly am. But we _need_ that information." Caleb's hands stilled, but he didn't respond. "If this was a trap, and there's something waiting for us in Trenton, we may very well be the only ones left alive. We can't risk scouting ahead, not with Ben in this condition. Because if we're seen… if we're followed… We're all dead." She rested a hand on his shoulder, and felt the muscles tense. "We can't run, _a chara_."

Caleb's eyes darted briefly in Ben's direction. The Captain was stirring slightly, but there was nothing to suggest that he would actually awaken anytime soon. "How d'ya plan on findin' 'er?" he whispered.

"Miss Adams?" Tabitha asked, and Caleb nodded. "She shouldn't be too hard to find," she continued. "I'll ask around. If her aunt's as popular as you say, surely someone can point me in the right direction."

"I s'pose," Caleb said, more of an exhale than actual words. "Catharine's always been the talk of the town. Don' know where she'll be stayin, though."

Tabitha had half-opened her mouth to reply when Caleb's words fully sank in. "Catharine?" she repeated, indignant, remembering the words on the letter she'd copied. Copied and burned, following a change of heart, but the words "Aunt Rebecca" still stood out clearly in her mind. "The letter was a fake."

"Course it was," Caleb replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Ya didn' really think I'd leave a letter like that lyin' about in the open, did ya?"

"I can't believe you!"

The resulting laugh was much lighter now, but it didn't help Tabitha's mood. "Yer the one who said we shouldn' trust ya," he reminded her, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes.

"And do you trust me now, Brewster?"

"Yeah." Caleb said, surprising himself as much as Tabitha with the lack of hesitation. "I do. Kinda hard not ta, after the way ya jumped in after Ben 'n all." Tabitha's lips quirked in a small smile as Caleb tossed her the second rabbit. "Now what d'ya say we have some food before ya leave? Prob'ly best if ya wait til mornin, anyways."

Tabitha was halfway back to the small shelter before he could finish his sentence, returning moments later with her coat and two blankets. "I'm listening," she said, wrapping the blankets around her form like a cocoon. "But pardon me if I don't plan on freezing to death while I do it."


	20. Scrimshaw

_July, 1776, Maryland_

The second time Tabitha awoke, the room was completely dark, and mercifully cooler. There was still a faint hint of smoke lingering in the air, the candle having likely been snuffed a short time ago. Experimentally, she stretched her fingers, then her toes, and was relieved to find them once again under her control. Her body still felt sluggish, however, and moving her arms was infinitely more exhausting than it should have been.

Positioning her elbows at her side, she gingerly attempted to push herself to a sitting position. What followed was easily the most intense pain she had ever felt. White-hot agony shot through her entire midsection, cramping, tearing, burning, unlike anything she had ever experienced. She collapsed onto the mattress with a cry, eyes clamped shut as her body tensed, pressing a hand to her mouth and breathing through her nose as she tried to will the pain and sudden nausea away.

"You have to relax," came a voice from somewhere above her. A cool cloth was draped over her forehead, and she took a slow breath.

The pain did not dissipate, but it lessened slightly as she evened her breathing. "What happened?" she gasped finally, opening her eyes and blinking away the water dripping from the cloth.

"You're alive; that's what's important," Aaron said softly, wiping the droplets away with the broad pad of his thumb. "The doctor was useless," he added darkly, eyes narrowing for a second. "Seemed more inclined to comment on your marital status than to do anything useful."

"The baby?" Tabitha asked suddenly, attempting to sit again despite the pain. "Is the baby alive?"

Aaron's frown was immediately replaced with a sizeable grin as he eased his sister back down onto the bed. "A healthy and obscenely loud son is waiting to meet his mother," he replied teasingly, and Tabitha immediately went limp against the mattress with a relieved laugh.

"A boy?" she said, fingers intertwining with Aaron's as she fought back tears. "May I see him?"

"Soon," Aaron promised. "He's with Father Michael now, sleeping. But I'll tell him you're awake."

Aaron made to stand, but Tabitha's grip tightened on his hand, and he stopped. "Not yet," she whispered. "Stay for awhile." He nodded, settling back on the floor and resting his head against his sister's shoulder.

"As long as you need, _a thaisce_," he replied. Tabitha turned her head and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, then nestled her face in his dark curls. He smelled slightly of sweat and rain-calming, and so overwhelmingly familiar that she felt the exhaustion slowly claim her body once again.

"Aaron?" she said softly as her eyes slid shut. She felt, rather than heard, his soft hum of acknowledgement. "Thank you."

_"Codail, a Thaibít," _he replied, breath warm against her throat as he spoke. _"Tá mé anseo."_

* * *

_December, 1776, New Jersey_

Tabitha slept fitfully throughout the night, tossing and turning, kicking and pulling at the blankets as her body alternated between too hot and too cold. Caleb had been wise to suggest waiting for morning before departing. Despite almost a whole day of sleep and her protests to the contrary, she was still exhausted, and had barely finished a few bites of rabbit before she was nodding off again.

When morning finally came, she felt every bit as tired as she had the night before, but she felt much stronger, and her limbs no longer shook as she got to her feet. As she rose, Tabitha quickly held her hand next to Ben's face, and pulled it back again once she felt his breath against her skin. It had become a ritual of sorts over the past few hours. Every time she woke up during the night, she had passed a hand over his mouth, reassuring herself that he was still there, and she was not lying down next to a corpse.

"He still alive, then?" Caleb asked playfully, and Tabitha rolled her eyes.

"Just making sure," she replied testily, brushing a few stray leaves from her breeches before reaching for her coat.

"Yer wearin' that?" Caleb asked as Tabitha pulled her coat down from where it hung on the branch.

"What else would you have me wear?" she replied as she pulled the blue fabric over her shoulders. "I could take your coat, but mine's too small for you to wear in exchange. You'd freeze."

Caleb tossed another log onto the fire. "Just sayin' yer gonna stand out, is all. Hope yer not gonna ride into New York like that."

"I'm not stupid, Brewster," she said. "I was planning on borrowing some clothes from a line. No one will question a half-starved farmgirl going to York City. They'll likely assume I'm a prostitute."

Caleb laughed. "Don' think I've ever seen ya in a dress, molly."

"Cherish the image, then, as it's not one you're ever likely to see." Tabitha's eyes lingered momentarily on the branch, something beneath Ben's slightly larger coat catching her eye. "What's this?" she asked. The fabric of Ben's coat was cold beneath her hands as she eased it aside, and her other hand closed around the contrastingly finer silk of the scarf. "This is a woman's. Whose is it?"

"Charlotte sent it ta him," Caleb said, reaching out to take it from her and placing it gently back on the branch. He then draped Ben's coat over it again and went back towards the fire, Tabitha only a step behind him.

"He's been carrying it with him?" she pressed. "All this time?" Caleb looked a bit wary, as though reluctant to tell Tabitha any more than she already knew. To be fair, on a normal day, she would have given Ben a fair amount of grief over such a sentimental gesture, but now, her mind went in a different direction. "Lend it to me," she said suddenly.

"No."

"I'll be careful not to damage it," she continued, exasperated. "This scarf could very easily be my ticket into Miss Adams' good graces. Think about it, Brewster," she added hastily, sensing Caleb's intended interruption. "She knows you. She likely hasn't stopped thinking about Ben for a day since she met him. But she and I have not exchanged a single word, and I was hardly the focus of her attention that night. There is every chance that she won't recognize me."

"She sees ya in a dress with _her_ scarf 'round yer neck…" Caleb trailed off, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Tabitha swore under her breath. "Yer not takin' it. Benny'll be a mess if he thinks he's lost it. But…" he continued, ushering her over to where his satchel lay. "I may have somethin' fer ya."

"You may?"

Caleb shrugged. "Maybe." The knife he pulled from the bag was simple enough—small, likely meant for a child, with a well-worn and obviously hand-carved bone handle. Vaguely, she wondered whether or not Caleb intended for her to use it on their agent, something she would be more than capable of doing, but not a course of action that Ben would likely approve.

"You're absolutely right, Caleb; this is _far_ better than _my_ idea," she gushed with an over-the-top air of sarcasm. "How did I not think of it myself?"

"Quiet, you," Caleb snorted. "Ben's father made this fer 'im when we were kids. He's carried it with him all these years."

He passed the knife to her, and she turned it over in her hands, examining the carved stars in the whale tooth. Not the most skilled carvings she'd ever seen, but the scrimshaw constellation was aesthetically pleasing nonetheless. "Did his father carve these?" she asked, fingertips brushing along the blackened stars.

"No, that's Ben's handiwork," he replied with a smile. "He meant it ta be a gift fer Charlotte."

Tabitha frowned, but gave an approving nod. "If only he had been as thoughtful with his gifts when he and I were together," she commented. "Would you believe he once gave me a pair of lace gloves? Didn't know _what_ to do with them, so I wore them while I cleaned a chicken. The blood never did come out."

To his credit, Caleb made a diligent effort to suppress his laughter, but it wasn't exactly successful. Or perhaps it was, seeing as they weren't surrounded by Redcoats after his significantly muffled outburst, and Tabitha felt herself grinning in response. "Yer somethin' else, molly," Caleb said after awhile, and Tabitha gave a mock bow.

"Why, Lieutenant, I do believe that is the sweetest thing you've ever said to me!" she said with her hands pressed to her heart. "Watch it. I might fall in love!" The ironic echo of his own words less than a week before was not lost on the whaler, and he descended into a fresh peal of laughter.

They were interrupted by a soft, snuffling snort from the large grey gelding tied at the edge of the clearing. "Yeah, I didn' forget about ya, Cinnamon," Caleb called, grin fading slightly as Tabitha tucked the knife into her waistcoat. "Careful," he added. "This fella here's a bit restless."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Tabitha replied with a shrug. "Oh, you might as well take these. I won't be needing them." She handed him her pistols and, without a moment's hesitation, the carbine musket and bayonet, glad to finally be rid of them.

"Yer goin' unarmed?" he asked incredulously, vainly trying to force the weapons back at the sub-lieutenant, who quickly ducked aside and made off towards her horse.

"I won't be unarmed," she called back, turning to face him as she ran backwards, and patting a hand to her waistcoat.

"What, that little butter knife?" Caleb shot back.

Tabitha shook her head. "Not that thing, no," she laughed, patting the horse on his nose as she untied the reins. "I've plenty weapons of my own, Brewster." She indicated the quiver of arrows at her hip before turning back to her horse and sliding her foot into the stirrup.

"Don' come back here, alright?" Caleb said as she mounted. Tabitha nodded, grasping the reins as the gelding sidestepped nervously, coming inches away from stepping on Caleb's foot. "Once ya hear from Charlotte, ride fer Morristown. When Benny's up an' about, we'll go lookin' fer the rest of the regiment. Do not," he emphasized again with a sudden grasp of her forearm that made her look down at him in surprise, "come back lookin' fer us. Understand?"

"I understand," she replied, wincing slightly at the pressure of his fingers, yet somewhat reluctant to pull away. "I can handle myself, in any case. You, however, have bigger concerns than my safety at the moment."

Caleb's grip on her arm relaxed slightly. "He'll be out of it fer a while," he said with a brief glance at Ben. "Can't say how long, but I've seen worse. He'll make it." He met Tabitha's stare with a grin. "Our Benny-boy's a real fighter, isn' he?"

"You would know," Tabitha muttered. "I don't really know him as well as you seem to think I do."

His grip loosened again, this time to what Tabitha could almost call a caress. "Ya know 'im well enough," he replied simply. "Not in the way I do, but ya obviously care for 'im."

For a moment, Tabitha considered pulling her arm away. She wasn't certain why the mere insinuation that she felt anything short of pure animosity for Ben warranted such a potent wave of anger in her core. There were plenty of fond memories tucked away in the recesses of her mind, and perhaps it was the ease in which those memories had resurfaced that infuriated her. Two months, two weeks, even two _days_ earlier, and she would have gladly pushed him in the river herself, and would likely have done so with a smile.

He was nothing.

And yet, he was everything.

"Caleb," she began warningly, voice wavering slightly. "What happened between Ben and I…" She glanced down at his hand, then back at his face. "It is over. I will never harbor any romantic feelings for him, seeing as I can barely stomach the sight of him on the best days. What happened at the river changes nothing, and if you're suggesting that he might think otherwise…"

Caleb shook his head, letting out a breath that Tabitha could almost call a laugh. "Trust me, molly, I doubt he gives a shite about yer feelins for 'im."

"Then why say I care?"

"'Cause ya do," he replied. "An' I guess what I'm tryin to say is… Thank you." When he was met with Tabitha's bewildered silence, he continued, "Like I said, I've seen men far worse than he is. And if ya hadn' helped push 'im back into the boat, that's what he'd'a been. Far worse." Finally, he laughed. "Christ, molly, yer the only person I know who'd take this as an insult."

Tabitha stared for a moment before responding with a simple, yet subdued, "You're welcome."

For a moment, they stood in silence, Caleb's hand resting gently on Tabitha's arm, and neither able to find the spirit to move apart. The wind had shifted, she realized, as the scent of wood smoke filled her nose. Her eyes flickered toward the fire, then back to Caleb's face.

"If ya have ta," he began hesitantly, "go fer the throat."

"What?"

"The unlucky bastard won' be able ta call fer help," he explained. "Less fightin' fer ya."

Tabitha just smiled, and her smile was full of teeth. "Oh, but I do _love_ a good fight. You just don't want me having fun without you, _a alltáin_. That's very selfish of you."

"We'll have a real fight when I see ya at Morristown, how's that sound?" Caleb offered, giving her arm a final squeeze before pulling away. She'd intended to respond with an arrogant boast, but as she opened her mouth, she found the words stuck in her throat, and opted to nod instead. _"Bí cúramach," _he said softly.

"_Beidh me,"_ she whispered back fiercely._"Muinín dom."_

She gave a quick squeeze of her legs, and Cinnamon eased into a brisk walk. For the first few paces, Caleb walked alongside them, but fell back as she urged the gelding into a faster trot. "Keep him safe, would you?" she called over her shoulder. "Miss Adams will be grateful!"

Caleb would have replied, but by the time he had formed the words in his mind, Tabitha was too far away to hear them.

* * *

Notes:

Irish Google!Translations (well, actually researched a bit more than just Google now, but still.)

a thaisce - my treasure  
Codail, a Thaibít. Tá mé anseo. - Sleep, Tabitha. I'm here.  
a alltáin - my wild one  
Bí cúramach - Be careful  
Beidh me. Muinín dom. - I will. Trust me.


	21. Arsehole

_July 1776, Maryland_

Aaron ran a trembling hand through his already-disheveled hair. The black ribbon he'd used to restrain the unruly curls lay discarded in a crumpled heap on the floor, where it had been for some time. Night turned to day and back to night again, and Tabitha's pained screams had lessened only in volume, not in frequency.

She was exhausted, and she wasn't the only one. "Have you slept?" the doctor-Aaron thought his name was Donovan-asked, wiping his hands on a towel.

Aaron fixed the doctor with a level stare, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes saying infinitely more than he could articulate in his current state. "How is she?" he asked instead.

The doctor shook his head as Tabitha's noticeably weaker screams started again. "I need to speak with you," he said, indicating the door. Aaron remained rooted to the floorboards.

"You're doing so now," he replied, eyes narrowing a fraction. "What is it you wish to discuss?"

Donovan gave a pointed look in Tabitha's direction, then turned back to the man leaning wearily against the wall. "Over thirty hours have passed," he said.

"Has it been that long?" Aaron said with a minor note of surprise. "I admit, I stopped counting early this morning."

A brief flash of irritation crossed Donovan's face as he continued, "She has made no progress. The child is turned wrong, and her body is too weak." Aaron's expression was a controlled calm, but Donovan did not miss the tears gathering in the corners of the man's startlingly green eyes. "It may be prudent to call for Father Ahearn."

"But he only studied medicine under his father," Aaron replied, voice trembling as he fought to maintain his calm façade. "He's no doctor. What could Father Michael possibly do that you-"

Donovan had already begun gathering his supplies as he interrupted, "Your sister needs a priest, Mr. McKenna." Tears slowly trickled down Aaron's face as Donovan continued, "I believe the same fate befell your mother? There is nothing more I can do for her."

Aaron shook his head, one hand scrubbing furiously across his eyes as he straightened from his slump against the wall. "There must be something," he insisted, pleading. "You can't leave her to die!"

Donovan shut his bag with an audible snap, and Aaron jumped slightly. "Your sister has made her choices," he said, voice clipped as he moved past Aaron to the door. "She must face the consequences of her actions."

"Consequences?!" Aaron exclaimed, hurrying after the doctor as the man descended the stairs. "She's done no wrong!"

Donovan spun to face the younger man as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and Aaron skidded to a halt before colliding with the doctor. "You _would_ imply she is without sin," he spat, and Aaron visibly recoiled.

"I implied nothing!"

"Do you think her indiscretions have gone unnoticed?" he continued, pointing one finger to the heavens. "The Lord is punishing her for her harlotry, and I will not defy the will of God to save your whore sister!"

Something had changed in Aaron's demeanor, and his expression slowly shifted from distraught to predatory. "And what do you know of God?" Aaron growled, lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl. A primal feeling of satisfaction gripped him as the doctor took an unconscious step back, and he advanced down the stairs after him. "You stand here and judge my sister, and would condemn her to death through your inaction!"

"There is nothing to be done for her," Donovan replied tersely, retreating into the kitchen. "She has condemned herself. _'A child born of whoredom or incest shall not enter into the church of the Lord, unto the tenth generation.'_ You know the Bible, Mr. McKenna."

"Incest." The word was spoken softly in reverent disbelief, as though he were tasting it in his mouth.

Donovan seemed to take his tone as an admission of guilt, and his expression bordered between triumph and disgust. "The whole city has known for years," he said. "Your relationship with her has never been appropr—"

Aaron's fist collided with the table with a crash, sending a candlestick clattering to the floor. _"Conas a leomh tú?!"_ he roared, advancing once more on the retreating doctor. His face, what many would normally describe as charming and handsome, was twisted and demonic as he spoke. The green of his irises stood out sharply from the bloodshot whites. His skin, normally a warm gold, was sickeningly pale. "I have been silent on this matter for too long, it seems," he continued, voice lowering menacingly. "No longer. I will not tolerate any more of this town's poison to be directed at my sister, and you would do very well not to comment on things you know_ nothing_ about."

"Whether or not the bastard is yours changes nothing," Donovan replied, voice much smaller as he circled the kitchen table in an effort to put some physical presence between himself and the irate soldier. "The Lord has cursed this child and its mother for her—"

Donovan broke off with a yelp as Aaron's fist closed around the doctor's shirtfront, pulling him close until their faces were mere inches apart. "You said I know the Bible," he hissed, and Donovan's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Would you like to hear one of my favourite verses?" Before he could form a reply, Aaron's fist collided with his nose in a sickening crunch of bone and blood. With a shout, he tried to wrench himself free of Aaron's iron grip, but was only rewarded with another blow, this time directed at his mouth. He crumpled to the floor with a shriek, feeling the sickeningly hot flow of blood pouring from his shattered nose and what he could only assume was a dislodged tooth resting on his tongue.

Aaron knelt down beside him, and he instinctively drew his arms to shield his face as the other man leaned to whisper in his ear,_ "Leigheas thú féin, a lia."_ Donovan whimpered as Aaron rose to his feet, glaring at the man bleeding on his floor as though he was a sickening pile of refuse. "Leave now, before I break something else."

* * *

_December 1776, New Jersey_

Tabitha pulled her coat tighter around her body, one hand resting on the gelding's throat as he drank greedily from the stream. The sun was high in the sky, but the air had only warmed slightly since that morning, and she relished in the heat radiating from the horse's neck into her fingers.

"That's enough, you," she said eventually, easing Cinnamon away from the water. She was surprised it hadn't frozen over, and the last thing she needed was her horse falling ill after slurping up the whole stream. "C'mere." With a firm pull of the lead line, she guided him towards the clearing. In the hours since she'd been acquainted with the gelding, he'd proven to be an extremely friendly creature, and more than a little bit of a glutton.

She heard a short snuffle in her ear, and quickly ducked to the side as Cinnamon's nose moved towards the side of her face. "Stop that," she said with a short laugh, pressing her face against his neck. Cinnamon's breathing was still heavy, and his pulse thundered in her ear.

Not that she was surprised. She'd set a hard pace as soon as she'd cleared the forest, slowing only when the terrain became too treacherous for a full gallop. As she walked around the clearing, Cinnamon a few paces behind, her thoughts began to wander as they had for the first few hours of her journey.

Plotting, planning, scheming. If Catharine Woodhull was as much the socialite as Caleb had claimed, someone would surely be able to point her in the right direction. The question was, who? It was unlikely anyone residing in any of the inns she might stay at would know about a wealthy woman visiting from Setauket. Not that there wouldn't be talk in the town, but this sort of talk simply wasn't something many people outside that particular social circle would care about.

Which presented another problem entirely. Tabitha was no stranger to social graces and, should the occasion arise, was more than capable of presenting herself as a respectable lady, but if Catharine was anything like her elegant niece, their social circle would be rather difficult to penetrate without arousing suspicion.

"Should've listened to that garbage about needlepoint, I suppose," she muttered, and Cinnamon gave a snort. "I couldn't agree more," she replied with a short laugh.

But needlepoint was the least of her concerns. Her best chance, she thought with a grimace, would be to scout the city as a woman, which would be tolerable if not for the stories she'd heard of men's behaviour towards women in the larger cities. Presenting herself as a man would inarguably be safer, but a woman of any social standing had a greater chance of locating a wealthy lady than a man. There would be less questions asked, less suspicion, and less of a chance for her to be noticed by the wrong people.

The point, she reminded herself, was to blend in as best she could. Playing the part of a servant girl seemed like the best bet; a role she could easily assume. No matter how fine a gown she wore, her body itself would easily betray her as someone of much less fortunate circumstances than the ladies she would undoubtedly encounter in her search for Charlotte. She had been slender all her life, narrow hips and small breasts giving her a rather boyish look, but her months of physical exertion and small rations with the Dragoons only intensified the look. The skin of her face was drawn taut across her cheekbones, and her body had none of the softness one might expect to see in a woman. Sun-darkened skin, underlying muscle, and the sharp definition of her collarbone were not features one would associate with a woman of privilege or wealth.

The lead line jerked in her hand, and she looked over her shoulder to see Cinnamon devouring a tuft of grass where her boots had disturbed the snow. "You'll be fat enough for the both of us at this rate," she muttered, easing him away and back towards the small copse of trees where she had deposited his saddle.

A nagging worry had worked its way into her mind as she re-fastened the bridle onto Cinnamon's head, and she found herself turning to look over her shoulder with every rustle of the leaves. Thirty minutes rest. She'd stayed too long. And while the prospect of encountering Regulars didn't frighten her (quite the opposite, in fact), the idea of capture before she could satiate her suspicions concerning Trenton did.

The cold air stung her wind-burned cheeks as she swung back up into the saddle, urging Cinnamon into a brisk walk toward the treeline. She hadn't encountered a single soul since leaving Caleb and Ben, and while she would on most occasions relish the silence, she found herself longing for some human company, if only to distract her from the biting chill of the wind.

She gave another squeeze of her legs, and Cinnamon's gait quickened into a rapid canter. _"Deifriú, a Chainéil,"_ she breathed.

* * *

By the time she reached the livery stable, the sun was sinking low on the horizon, painting the sky with varying hues of pink and gold. New York was close now, maybe two hours away at the most, but she knew forcing Cinnamon ahead would be fruitless.

The liveryman was a short man, plump, balding, but seemingly kind enough. His eyes lingered for only a second on the bright blue of Tabitha's coat before flashing a gap-toothed smile. "That's a fine horse you got there, sir," he said, and Tabitha inclined her head slightly.

"Thank you," she replied. "Poor creature's exhausted."

"Been riding long, then?" he asked with a second glance at her coat.

Tabitha's eyes narrowed slightly. "I have been tasked with delivering an urgent message," she said simply. "Are there any stalls available?"

The man's brow scrunched in thought. "Think we got three or four open. Were you thinkin' of making a switch?"

Tabitha nodded as she passed him the reins. "That is my plan, yes," she said. "If you have a horse available?"

"Several," the man confirmed as he waved down a boy approaching them "I'll have Willie here bring you the fastest one I got."

"Thank you, sir." Tabitha reached into the pouch at her waist, fumbling around a moment before her fingers closed around a familiar weight. "Will this cover it?" She passed the man a coin, and he nodded.

"More than enough," he said, smiling. "Come, I'll bring you some ale while you wait."

* * *

The horse-she hadn't learned its name, but had taken to calling it Arsehole-was fast, just as the liveryman had promised. The 16-hand Arabian stallion, coal-black with a wild look in his eyes, galloped as though someone had set fire to his tail, but clearly had not taken a liking to his new rider the way Cinnamon had. Where the gelding had been affectionate and a bit stubborn when he saw something edible, Arsehole was the opposite.

Riding was no problem, but as soon as she dismounted for water or rest, the stallion would take a nip at anything left too close to his face. "I swear ta Christ, if ya bite my hair one more time…" she growled as she dismounted. Arsehole let out an irritated snort as Tabitha tied his reins to a sturdy tree. "Wait here," she muttered, "an' fer chrissakes, keep quiet."

Night had fallen, and Tabitha was grateful for the dark colouring of her horse as she slipped away through the trees. While she had put off obtaining a disguise for most of the journey, finding herself this deep in British territory made different clothes a pressing necessity. Every snap of a twig set her on edge, and the leather-bound pommel of her dagger hadn't left her hand since the livery passed out of sight an hour before.

Slowly, she crept closer to her goal. A small farmhouse stood not far from the treeline, and in the faint moonlight, she could see her prize. Several gowns, petticoats, and other items of clothing flapped listlessly on the line, several of which looked to be about Tabitha's size.

Glancing about to ensure she could proceed unobserved, she quickly made her way over the fence and across the field. She snatched the closest gown off the line-a simple cotton garment of indeterminable colour in the darkness-followed by a pair of thick petticoats, a shift, a cloak, and a pair of stockings. There were no stays on the line, unsurprisingly, but all things considered, she felt quite fortunate in her find.

The same could not be said for the poor woman whose clothes she was making off with, however, and after a moment's hesitation, she fastened a heavy coin to the line with one of the clothespins. The woman would be able to purchase at least three sets of garments, and needed them desperately if the state of the fabric Tabitha held was anything to go by.

When she returned to where she'd left Arsehole tethered, she wasted no time in removing her uniform and donning the _slightly_ frosted and _slightly_too-large items from the clothesline. Arsehole pawed uncertainly at the ground, and Tabitha quickly rolled her uniform around her bow and quiver, wrapped the bundle into the spare blanket and, after ensuring the scrimshaw knife was tucked safely in the pocket beneath her petticoat, climbed back into the saddle.

They traveled at a much slower pace after leaving the woods, despite the fact they were finally on a somewhat even and well-maintained road. While she didn't expect to be identified as a Continental soldier while swimming in the fabric of her petticoats, the last thing she needed was to be noticed by the wrong man—one considerably less gallant and courteous than the ones she'd grown accustomed to. And though she was more than certain she could deter any unwanted advances from one man, she wasn't sure she would be able to fight off any companions that might come running should he opt to scream for help.

As luck would have it, she encountered no one until she reached the town-she couldn't put a name to it, unfamiliar as it was-with most people having chosen to remain inside, out of the winter's chill. Tabitha was eager to join them, and as soon as she found an open stable for Arsehole, she hurried for the closest inn. She could no longer feel her fingers, and her cheeks and nose stung from the fine dusting of snowflakes swept up by the wind.

But inside, the fire was roaring in the hearth, and men and women alike were gathered around tables with food and drink, aromas of meat and fresh bread wafting through the air. Tabitha's stomach gave an audible growl, and that coupled with the weight of her eyelids settled any debate she might have entertained about remaining for the night.

She would continue her journey in the morning.

* * *

Irish translations:  
Conas a leomh tú - How dare you  
Leigheas thú féin, a lia - Physician, heal thyself  
Deifriú, a Chainéil - Hurry, Cinnamon


	22. Breathe

_July 1776, Maryland_

Tabitha's screams were punctuated by breathless sobbing, and it was all Aaron could do not to join her. The thin linen of her shift was soaked through with sweat, and her dark hair was plastered to her forehead and the back of her neck. Never in his life had he felt so helpless; not on the morning she'd begged him not to let Father Michael send her to Connecticut, not on the nights she'd crawled into his bed because she felt alone, not even on the day a stone had fallen from the scaffolding and crushed their father's head before her eyes. She'd screamed on each occasion, but the breathless screams she released now tore at his heart in a way he'd never felt before.

Softly, as though too rough a touch would hurt her even more, he ran a finger across her brow, easing the dripping curls away from her eyes. "Tabitha," he whimpered, and the dam finally broke. His knees collided with the floor, the bruising pain failing to register as he laid his head beside hers and wept.

His knuckles stood out white as he clutched the sheets, each cry tearing through his chest with the sharpness of a bayonet. The pain was completely foreign to him. The feeling of utter hopelessness, impending loss, desperation, and the agony just wasn't stopping. He was burning. Air was like fire in his lungs, the tears stung his eyes as though he'd flung embers into them, and his throat felt raw, even though he couldn't remember when he'd started screaming.

The animalistic howls seemed to rouse Tabitha from her delirium, and he felt her hand, cool and clammy, rest against his fevered cheek. _"Ná caoin,"_ she whispered. Her voice was rough, trembling, as Aaron clutched her hand and pressed his face deeper into his sister's touch. _"Le do thoil, a Aroin, ná caoin."_

"_Ná bás a fháil,"_ he gasped in response, and Tabitha's face relaxed into a weak smile as she sank deeper into the pillows. _"Ní féidir leat saoire dom féin."_ Aaron buried his face into her hand, and tried to steady his breathing. As much as he wanted to scream, to fight, to curse God and all the saints for her pain, he knew it would only distress her further.

He let out a shaking, hiccuping breath as he felt her hand tense once more. Her whole body trembled as another contraction seized her, and her mouth opened in a soundless gasp, too weak to even vocalize her pain. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, and the words came unbidden to Aaron's lips before they had time to register in his mind:

"_Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiæ,__  
__vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve."_

Tabitha's breathing seemed to even out to an extent as he sang, and that was all the encouragement he needed. There was nothing he could do to ease her pain, but if there was a way for her final moments to be even slightly peaceful, he would offer her that.

"_Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevæ,_  
_Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes_  
_in hac lacrimarum valle."_

The tension melted away from her body, and her hand slipped from his grasp. A rushing filled Aaron's ears, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. The air in the room had turned to ice, and his hands trembled violently as he reached out to feel Tabitha's face, fully expecting to feel the chill of death clinging to her skin.

In that moment, the slow rise and fall of her chest caught his eye, and he let his hand fall back to the bed, letting out a relieved sob as his fingers twined in Tabitha's hair. She had passed out—from pain or sheer exhaustion, he couldn't tell. The reprieve couldn't last long, however, and in a sudden moment of clarity, Aaron hastily clambered to his feet.

Donovan had been right. Tabitha needed a priest. But he had been wrong about why.

There were other miracles Father Michael Ahearn could work outside the confines of prayer, and with a brief press of his lips to Tabitha's forehead, he fled the room, spurred on by the faint hope that a miracle could be worked on Tabitha before it was too late.

* * *

_December 1776, New York_

The ferry smelled like someone had rolled in a dung heap and died, a smell not even the salty breeze rolling off the Harbor's water could dissipate. Tabitha silently blamed the man standing far too close to her, and inched back as the hem of his stained coat swung toward her chest with the momentum of the ferry. A clump of God-knows-what dangled from the corner, and she wasn't eager to have it dislodge and end up on her clothes.

She had spent more time than she cared to admit attempting to make herself look presentable that morning. The innkeeper's wife had been kind enough to sell her daughter's old stays when she noticed Tabitha's obvious lack thereof, and lingered for the better part of an hour to fuss over her unruly shoulder-length curls. By the time she'd stepped back and deemed the younger woman presentable, Tabitha had endured the most vigorous assault via hairbrush in her life. But in the end, she found the effect to be rather pleasing. The woman had pinned her hair in a simple updo, leaving several wavy tendrils cascading along the sides of her face and tickling against the back of her neck. Uncomfortable though she was the obvious expression of femininity, she still had to admit to herself upon catching her reflection in the window that the final result was, though not exactly stunning, quite beautiful.

"What brings you to New York, then?" the woman had asked, as Tabitha fastened her cloak around her shoulders. "You have family there?"

"No, no family," she replied distantly, still transfixed by the stranger in the window. When the woman made no response, she finally tore her gaze from the dusty glass. "I'm looking for work." The woman's brow crinkled slightly, and Tabitha hastily added, "The household I worked for in Trenton fell on hard times, and I was told there might be employment available in the city."

The woman's expression softened slightly, and she reached out to straighten Tabitha's cloak. "Well, I wish you the best of luck," she said gently, patting Tabitha's cheek. If she felt the sudden tenseness in the younger girl's face as she steeled herself against pulling back, she made no comment. "Be careful out there," she added. "There's some unsavory sorts 'round the docks."

"Thank you," Tabitha replied with a small smile, hoping her expression didn't come across as forced as it felt. "I'll return soon for my horse. I don't wish to leave him, but," She shook her head slightly, as though in resignation, "I fear my chances of finding an available stable within the city are quite small. Hopefully my new place of employment will permit me to keep him." The woman nodded sympathetically. "But if not, the stable master has offered me a very handsome price, so I'll be returning, in any case."

"Best be on your way, then, child," she said, then added as Tabitha picked up her blanket-wrapped bundle from the table, "I could have one of my boys see you to the harbor."

Tabitha shook her head with a smile. "That won't be necessary," she said. "I'll be following a young couple I met last night. Thank you for your help," she added, as the woman opened her mouth to interject. "I'm very grateful."

With a sigh, the woman gave Tabitha a gentle pat on the arm. "Be safe, child."

A particularly noxious smell jerked Tabitha out of her reverie, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust as the man next to her staggered a step closer. It was definitely he who was fouling the air around her, and she took a small step back, closer to the front of the ferry. She was no stranger to foul-smelling men, having lived in close quarters with a great number of them for the past few months, but something about this man disgusted her on an entirely different level.

Perhaps it was her already foul mood. After the innkeeper's wife's unspoken assumption concerning the sort of work Tabitha might be seeking, she was hardly surprised when the ferryman had jumped to a similar conclusion. She had not, however, been prepared for the sharp slap he'd given her backside as she boarded, and had it not been for the potentially grave situation she'd left Caleb in and the consequences of lashing out, she would have had no qualms about opening his throat with the dagger she'd concealed in the sleeve of her gown.

But it had been close. At the very least, she would have loved to return his slap with a much stronger one of her own, aimed at his swollen, ruddy face, but she couldn't risk drawing even the slightest bit of attention to herself.

Not anymore.

Before boarding the ferry, she knew bringing her weapons and uniform was out of the question. In all wisdom, she should have hidden them before taking a room at the inn. But the light of the sun gave her a much better view of the terrain surrounding the water, and in no time at all, she had located a small hill near the water's edge, dense with bushes and large stones. A perfect place to conceal any link between herself and the Continental Army.

Also the perfect place for a man to take a shit, she realized belatedly, as she glimpsed the startling crimson of the soldier's coat as he emerged from the small copse of trees not a hundred feet away.

She immediately dropped to the ground, lying flat on her stomach and hoping against hope that she hadn't been seen. While it normally wouldn't be too much of a problem for a woman to be seen wandering along the water's edge, the presence of a hidden Continental uniform would see her shot dead before she could offer up any explanation. After a few moments and a few more steadying breaths, she pushed herself up a fraction and risked a glance through a gap in the rocks.

The soldier clearly hadn't seen her, judging by the way he yawned as he idly scratched at his crotch, but he was walking straight towards her, and showed no sign of changing his course. Tabitha's heart thundered in her chest, and with a whispered curse, she silently reached for the familiar weight of her bow while simultaneously easing an arrow from her quiver.

She could hear his footsteps now; the snapping of twigs and rustling of frozen grass coupled with the occasional crunch of snow beneath his boots was deafening in her hyper-aware state, and she forced her breathing into a steadier rhythm as she nocked the arrow the same way she'd done a thousand times in the past.

_In. Out._

The soldier was closer now. Walking slowly, casually, but steadily.

_In._

With one fluid motion, Tabitha rose to her feet, drew and, before the Redcoat had time to fully register what was in front of him, loosed her arrow.

_Out._

The Redcoat's hands flew to his throat, eyes bulging in shock as he felt the arrow pierce his neck. Tabitha sprinted towards him, knife drawn, the moment the arrow hit its mark, and if the man had attempted to scream, any sound he could have hoped to make was silenced by the shaft sticking in his windpipe. Blood bubbled from his mouth as he made a second garbled attempt at speech, but he was already fading. His legs gave out beneath him as Tabitha approached, and he collapsed face-first to the ground, forcing the point of the arrow out through the back of his neck with a sickening squelch.

His body jerked once, twice, three times, and then was still.

Tabitha stood over the corpse for a moment, watching carefully for any sign of life before finally flipping him over with her foot. His eyes were wide and unseeing, and with a firm tug, she wrenched the arrow from his throat, then with a second, much more forceful kick, rolled his body off the rocky ledge and into the water. The water was mostly still, and she planned on being long gone before anyone discovered the man's fate.

_No_, she thought again with a barely-suppressed glare at the ferryman as the boat gave a small lurch. She'd risked enough for the day. A soldier's death she could justify. But a greasy little man who couldn't keep his filthy hands to himself was hardly worth dirtying her dagger for.

* * *

The arrival into York City couldn't have come quickly enough, and Tabitha was ready to make her escape as soon as they reached the docks. But the ferryman's eyes had been exploring her body for the majority of the trip, and without papers, she knew he was unlikely to let her off the boat without demanding an additional toll. She was sure she could break his nose if worse came to worst, and though she was more than eager to put as much distance as she could between herself and his prying eyes, she had thought of a better use for the man.

"You handle the boat marvelously," she said as he approached her, forcing her face into what she hoped would pass as a flirtatious smile.

The ferryman didn't bother hiding the hungry expression that overtook his features when he eyed her up and down, as though sizing her up. "Thought you might appreciate a smooth ride, miss," he said with a wide grin, and Tabitha felt her stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Thank you, sir," she replied. "Very courteous of you. But…" She leaned in closer to whisper in his ear, doing her best not to gag at the smell of what she could only assume to be stale whiskey and dried urine. "I find that I enjoy a rough ride from time to time." The ferryman's breath quickened as Tabitha straightened, and if her smile had taken on a slightly more sinister look, he didn't notice. "Do you speak any Irish, sir?" she continued. When he shook his head, she said, "There is a word that I believe describes a man of your… caliber. _Sceathrachán."_ She let the word roll off her tongue with a purr, and smirked as the man quivered at her tone.

Pathetic.

"And what does that word mean?" he asked, voice lowering to what she would almost call a growl.

Tabitha gave a pointed glance at the front of the ferryman's breeches, then met his eyes with a smirk and a brief swipe of her tongue across her lips. "I'll have to teach you, won't I?" she said. "I believe I would make an exemplary teacher." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'm quite talented in tongues."

The nausea returned with a vengeance as the ferryman reached down to adjust himself through his breeches. "I'll be the judge of that, won't I?" he said, his rough, calloused hands attaching themselves to her hips as he pulled her in to press against his body.

If she hadn't been fighting the overwhelming urge to vomit, she would have smirked when a voice called out from behind them, "Is he giving you trouble, miss?"

'_Perfect timing,'_ Tabitha thought triumphantly, as she put the second part of her plan into action. "Take your hands off me!" she shrieked, and could hear the answering footsteps of the gentleman who had called out to her. "Animal!" Before the ferryman could get a word in to explain the situation, she gave a well-aimed shove to his shoulders, and with an undignified shriek, he tumbled backwards into the water.

"Whore!" he spluttered, but Tabitha had taken off running before he could wipe the water from his eyes, and the last thing she heard before disappearing into the crowd was the gentleman's irate admonishment of the ferryman's disgusting behaviour.

* * *

The city was much larger than Tabitha had imagined. Louder too, she noted with a grimace as a particularly loud group of men pushed past her, voices overlapping in an attempt to make their point heard in whatever ridiculous topic they were debating. Horses and carriages crowded the streets, people swarmed around them like ants, and the smell, _God,_ the _smell._

She couldn't think with the noise and the stench and the people, and quickly as she was able, she ducked into the first place she could find, desperate for somewhere quiet where she could collect her thoughts.

The boarding house was mercifully quieter, but still rather crowded compared to the tiny inn she'd left that morning. But she supposed it was as good as any, and she slumped into the nearest empty chair, resting her head on the heels of her palms, elbows propped on the well-worn oak of the tabletop. She desperately wished she could have foregone the whalebone stays. Though they were noticeably less confining than the ones she'd worn in Baltimore, when coupled with the immensity of her task and the dense population of the unfamiliar city, she felt like she was slowly suffocating.

The chatter of the room's occupants was tolerable, however, and after a moment's worth of deep breathing, she found the warm, slightly smoky atmosphere leaning more towards comforting than she'd expected. The faint light shining through the stained-glass window beside her was reminiscent of the church in Baltimore, and a feeling of peace began to work its way through her core.

She needed to focus. Catharine Woodhull's arrival and location had to be known by someone, though she doubted that someone would be one of the boarding house's current residents. Weary men, likely dock workers, a few younger, livelier men chatting over their ale, several Redcoats with their porridge, and one woman with an irritated expression on her face as the man beside her erupted in raucous laughter. The Redcoats scattered throughout the room were more likely to have some useful insight, but any interaction with them was out of the question.

"Are you feeling unwell?"

Tabitha's head shot up from her hands as she spun around to face the speaker, pressing a hand to steady her heart as she realized the man was not, in fact, a Redcoat. "You startled me," she said with a small laugh, but there was no answering smile on the man's face as he raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as Tabitha cleared her throat. "Forgive me, I'm simply feeling rather… overwhelmed." The man gave a slight 'ah' as she continued, "I have never seen so many people in one place."

His eyes briefly darted around the room, then back to her as though inquiring whether or not she was referring to the patrons of the establishment itself. "I'm afraid I find myself a little lost," she said when it became clear the man had nothing to add to the conversation. "I'm looking for work, and I was told Catharine Woodhull may be needing assistance." Tabitha exhaled with an irritable huff, finding herself wishing she could smack the man upside the back of his head. His silence was grating on her more than any spoken words had that morning. "Have you any idea as to where I might find her?"

"You might ask at the Holy Ground," he said after a moment. "I haven't heard the name Woodhull mentioned before."

"Holy Ground?" she repeated with a frown. "A church?"

He shook his head. "A… market," he said. "You'll find it between Trinity Church and King's College. Someone there may be able to point you in the right direction."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with either of those places," Tabitha said slowly, and the man shrugged.

"Ask anyone. They can show you." When Tabitha didn't respond, he added, "Look for the steeple. It's difficult to miss."

"Steeple. Yes, I'm sure I can find that," she muttered as she slowly rose to her feet. "You've been very helpful," she continued. "Thank you, Mr…" she trailed off, staring at him expectantly.

"Townsend," he finished.

"Thank you, Mr. Townsend," she said with a demure smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I truly appreciate your help. Good morning to you." Her chair grated against the wood of the floor as she slid it closer to the table, and without any further comment, she slipped back outside into the insanity that was York City.

* * *

The Holy Ground was many things, but none of these things qualified as a market in Tabitha's mind. There were shops selling various odds and ends, but after the first fistfight she encountered not ten feet into the area dissolved in blood as one of the aggressors pulled a knife, she quickly realized this was not a place she should linger any longer than strictly necessary.

The first few women she encountered hadn't heard the name Woodhull, and seemed more concerned with their work than any questions she might direct towards them. The next group was slightly more attentive, but offered no more information than the first.

Briefly considering the possibility that she may have to start going door-to-door at this rate, she quickly approached the next woman she saw and, with hopes that her irritability might come across as desperation-which wasn't far from the truth at this point-called out, "Pardon me, miss?" The woman seemed friendlier than the people she'd encountered up to this point, and she quickly continued, "I'm so sorry to trouble you, but I'm looking for work, and I heard Catharine Woodhull was in town."

"Why you lookin for work with Catharine Woodhull?" the girl asked, not quite suspicious, but more along the lines of mild curiosity. "She don't live in the city."

"Yes, I know," Tabitha said. "But I had hoped she would have a position available in Long Island, and I'm quite desperate for work, so…"

The girl's smile was gentle, and Tabitha felt herself mirroring the expression as she relaxed. "I heard she stayin with Lady Brightlea," she said, and indicated a pair of girls examining a display of striped bass in the opposite stall. "Them girls work for her. Just follow them, and they'll show you where to go."

* * *

"Shit."

It was an appropriate sentiment, she felt, given the sheer vastness of the estate. Easily the largest house she'd ever laid eyes on, she would have taken time to marvel if it hadn't been for the sinking feeling in her gut. Charlotte could very well be directly behind those exquisite doors, but she could have very well been on the other side of the world for all the chances Tabitha had of actually getting inside to confirm it.

She needed a contingency plan. The sheer extravagance of the area itself was daunting, and Tabitha had never felt more out of place in her life. Already, she was receiving strange looks from passersby, some soldiers, some servants, all of whom were dressed much nicer than she was.

How did one even go about seeking employment in such an exclusive household, she wondered in frustration. She doubted knocking on the front doors would be taken well, but sneaking around back would look suspicious at the very least to anyone who might happen to see her. And any person unsure of how to properly go about requesting employment would probably not even be considered for a position in the household to begin with.

Another sidelong glance from a well-dressed woman, and Tabitha made her decision. She would have to risk knocking on the door, and if she was lucky, she might catch a glimpse of Charlotte milling about the house. All she needed was the confirmation that the accursed woman was actually there, and she could be on her way. There would be no contact between herself and Charlotte in any case-not dressed as she was. On the off chance that the girl even remembered anything from the docks outside of Ben's flattery, she would be expecting a soldier, not a twig-thin girl dressed in an ill-fitting, threadbare gown.

She was no more than three steps closer to the house when she heard it. The slow, mournful song of a pianoforte being played inside the house. Tabitha paused as the music slowly increased in volume and tempo, and she found herself staring at the window where the music was clearest.

Tabitha was no stranger to music. She'd heard the cheerful songs Aaron enjoyed playing at the tavern, the pieces Father Michael would turn to after a stressful day, and while she had little talent for any instruments herself, she liked to think she could recognize a skilled musician when she heard one. And yet, this…

The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and she could hear the muffled voices conversing inside. The woman perched delicately in front of the pianoforte turned to reply to whatever had been asked, and Tabitha's heart leapt.

Charlotte. The woman's russet hair was unmistakable, even at a distance. There could be no doubt.

She had what she needed-for the moment, at least. Charlotte wouldn't be going far for some time, and it gave Tabitha enough time to rest while she devised a plan to get a message to the socialite. As she hurried back the way she came, she vaguely remembered how comfortable the boarding house she'd stumbled across earlier had seemed...

* * *

Translations!

Ná caoin. Le do thoil, a Aroin, ná caoin. - Don't cry. Please, Aaron, don't cry.  
Ná bás a fháil - Don't die.  
Ní féidir leat saoire dom féin - You can't leave me alone.  
Sceathrachán - vile, worthless creature

The Latin text is called Salve Regina, also called Hail, Holy Queen. If you're interested in hearing it, here's a link: www. youtube .com(/)watch?v=BE3YjeBowrM


	23. Miracle

_July 1776, Maryland_

As he hurried outside into the night, Aaron momentarily wondered how he'd failed to hear the thundering of rain beating on the roof. He was soaked to the skin mere seconds after leaving the stifling warmth of the house, but barely gave the sensation a second thought as he sprinted into the darkness.

He had very little time, and the knowledge that every second might very well be Tabitha's last spurred him on through the puddles of mud like a whip at his back.

There were lights in the distance, shining through the windows of the houses along the way. One such house, he noticed with a sudden plan forming in his mind, had its door ajar, where a young woman stood peering out into the storm, hand cupped around the flame of her candle to shield it from the tempest swirling around them.

"Miss Walsh!" he cried out, repeating her name once again as his voice was lost in the wind. She looked up in his direction, and a wave of recognition crossed her face as he hurried to her doorstep, looking half-drowned from the rain.

"Mr. McKenna!" she exclaimed, delighted, yet concerned. "What in God's name are you doing? Come inside at once!"

Aaron shook his head, doubled over as he gasped for breath. "Please, there's no time," he said hurriedly. "I must ask a favor of you, and I pray you won't refuse."

"Ask, then," she replied simply.

"Tabitha," he gasped. "My sister, she's… Please, Moira, will you go to her?"

Moira's face darkened slightly, and it had nothing to do with the shadows cast by the flickering light of her candle. "How could I possibly be of any use to your sister?"

"There's no time!" he repeated, voice noticeably higher-pitched than before. "I must fetch Father Michael. The doctor has left. Says there's nothing more he can do for her or the child, oh Moira, _please!"_ He was not above begging. Not now. "She hasn't much time, and she's alone."

Moira's face softened slightly, and after a moment, she nodded. "Let me fetch my cloak," she said finally, and if there were tears in Aaron's eyes, they could easily be mistaken for rain.

"I'm forever in your debt," he said simply. "I must go. Please, hurry!"

Before Moira could take a step to return to her house, Aaron had already sped off into the storm. His pulse thundered in his ears, the distance he could normally have covered with ease wearing his exhausted body down with every step as he slipped and stumbled through the mud.

But he couldn't slow, and he couldn't stop. Every breath he took was a whispered prayer for deliverance, for forgiveness. A desperate plea for mercy. The church couldn't have been farther away at this moment, and the landscape before him seemed to stretch on for an eternity.

When he finally reached the steps of the dilapidated building, his legs had all but given out. He scrambled up the uneven stairway, hands finding surer purchase on the rough stones than his feet, and flung himself at the heavy double doors.

Locked.

"Father!" he screamed, slamming his hands against the wood, one hand curled into a fist, and the other colliding with the door in a frantic, open-palmed slap. "Father, please, help!" His voice cracked as he shrieked, and he threw his weight behind his frenzied assault. _"Le do thoil, a shagairt, oscail an doras!"_

The doors flew open, and Aaron stumbled and fell to his knees in the entryway. "Aaron!" Michael exclaimed, practically stumbling himself as he dropped to his knees. "What's happened? Are you hurt?"

"Tabitha," he gasped in reply. "Please, Father, she's dying. You have to…" He broke off, coughing as he tried to catch his breath. "Help her. Please, you must…"

Michael had already gotten to his feet before Aaron could even begin to steady his breathing. "Can you walk?" he asked, offering his hand, which Aaron accepted gratefully.

"No, but I will run."

"Run, then." And without so much as pausing to close the doors behind him, he ran, Aaron not more than a step behind him. Lightning flashed overhead, punctuated by the roar of thunder both men could feel shaking their bones with its raw power. It sparked an even greater sense of urgency, and in what felt like no time at all, they burst through the farmhouse doors, the dim light momentarily blinding in contrast to the darkness outside.

"Aaron!" exclaimed a voice from the hall, and as Aaron sank to the floor, body wracked with coughs and gasps, the speaker was immediately beside him. "Christ in Heaven, are you ill?"

"Give him space, Rory," Michael snapped, immediately hurrying to the kitchen. "Where are your knives, Aaron?"

"Knives?" Rory repeated, glancing from the priest to the man crumpled on the floor. "Moira said…"

"Beside the stove," Aaron spluttered, weakly attempting to push the man fussing over him aside. "Father, why…?"

Michael emerged seconds later, knives in hand along with several cloths and a familiar-looking bag. "Get up, Aaron," he said, firm, but not unkind. "Mr. Walsh, is the doctor upstairs?"

"There's no doctor here," he replied, ignoring Aaron's attempts to wave him off as he struggled to his feet. "Moira's upstairs with Tabitha, but she was alone when we arrived."

Michael glared at Aaron, who shrugged. "He was of no use," he gasped. "With luck his… crooked nose will serve as a… reminder of how he ought to treat his patients." Rory's face split into a grin, but Michael's eyes were sharp behind the sodden brown hair plastered to his face.

"We'll discuss this later, Aaron," he snapped, walking briskly toward the hall. "Both of you had best come with me. I'll have need of your hands."

Rory's face paled slightly as he followed, Aaron half-slumped on his shoulder and weakly protesting as they ascended the rickety stairs. "What are the knives for, Father?" he asked, but received no reply.

Moira jumped slightly as the door flew open, reverberating off the wall with an earsplitting _bang_. Despite her surprise, her slumped position in the chair beside the bed was one of sheer boredom, and paid no mind to Tabitha's pained whimpers as her gaze landed on Aaron. "Mr. McKenna—!" she began, clearly delighted, but was cut off as Aaron shoved past her as he crossed the room to kneel beside his sister, whispering soft words of endearment as he traced his fingertips along her face. The indignation shone fiercely in Moira's eyes as she steadied herself, then shot a glare at her brother.

Rory hardly seemed to notice either, quickly moving to stand beside the priest on the opposite side of the bed. With an audible huff, Moira spun on her heel and stomped towards the door, pausing only briefly as Michael called after her with an order to boil water downstairs.

He was rifling through the bag as the door slammed behind her, and he finally pulled out a small bottle. "How long has she been like this?" he asked Aaron, who answered without slowing the soft brush of his hand against her forehead.

"Thirty hours," he whispered. "Donovan said she's made no progress."

Michael's lips were a thin line as he pressed his fingertips against the swell of Tabitha's midsection, face slowly losing its color as she screamed once more. "It's as I feared," he whispered, and Rory stared alternatingly between Tabitha's stomach, Michael's face, and Aaron's shuddering form. "Aaron."

Aaron looked up at the pointed use of his name, and was met with Michael's somber stare.

"Tabitha is dying." Aaron's face crumbled, and it took all the willpower he had not to collapse in a sobbing heap on the floor. He shook his head violently, whispering a broken mantra of 'no, no, no,' under his breath until Michael's voice rang out again. "Aaron! _Éist liom!"_ The whispering stopped, and Aaron pressed his palms against his cheekbones.

"_Tá mé ag éisteacht."_

"There is a chance I can save her." Aaron's head shot up, mouth hanging slightly open as the priest continued. "But it is a small chance. What I am about to attempt may very well kill her. But if we do nothing, she _will_ die." Aaron made no reply, and Michael said, loudly, "Do you understand, Aaron?"

"I understand," he replied hurriedly. "Whatever it is you plan on doing, please, do it!"

Michael flung one of the cloths at him, then turned to Rory. "Go and see what's keeping your sister," he said. As Rory hurried to comply, Aaron got to his feet and joined Michael on the other side of the bed. "I will need your help for this, and you must follow my directions exactly." Aaron nodded, and Michael uncorked the bottle he'd retrieved from Donovan's bag. "Have her swallow this," he said. "Laudanum. She cannot be awake for what I am about to do."

Aaron did not need further instruction. Gently, he eased one hand behind Tabitha's head, raising her slightly as he pressed the bottle to her lips. "Tabby,drink," he whispered. She barely managed to incline her head in a weak attempt at a nod before the bitter taste flooded her mouth and throat. She had a brief moment of clarity, barely enough time to register anything around her aside from her brother's face, before she felt her eyes grow heavy and slide shut. The last thing she heard was Michael's voice in the distance, and then nothing.

"_Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. __Amen."_

In the doorway, a pot of water balanced between his hip and left arm, Rory quickly crossed himself, muttering a brief 'Amen' before hurrying to join the two men. "Wash, both of you," Michael said, quickly splashing the hot water over his hands and the knife. "We must be quick."

When the boys had cleaned their hands as best they could in the steaming water, Rory shooting Aaron several glances that were pointedly ignored, Michael passed Rory the second towel. "Do exactly as I say, and do not question me," he said, and both boys nodded, Rory slightly more energetically, blond curls bouncing with the vigorous movement of his head. One might have mistaken his vigor for zeal, had it not been for the noticeable lack of color in his cheeks and the slightly nauseated twist of his mouth.

To his credit, Aaron did not flinch when Michael made the first incision on Tabitha's abdomen, directly below the swell of the child. The cut was deep, and at Michael's indication, he quickly pressed the towel to the wound to soak up the blood seeping from the incision.

Michael kept cutting. Rory gave a soft whimper, but Aaron kept on patting away the blood, until the priest finally spoke, "I need your hands now, Aaron," he said softly. "Rory, do as Aaron has done, but keep your hands clear."

Under Michael's gentle guidance, Aaron slid his fingers beneath the slippery flaps of the wound, pulling back the skin to reveal the dark pink of what he could only assume was his sister's womb. The child was moving beneath the tissue, and he barely register's Rory's gasp as Michael continued cutting.

When it came time for Rory to assist Aaron, he thought the blond was likely to pass out. Finally, for the first time that night, Aaron met his eyes, and Rory gave a weak nod before steeling himself and sliding his hands to join the other man's in spreading the mouth of the wound wider. "You alright?" he whispered, and Rory gave a small incline of his head.

There was a sudden urgency in Michael's movements, and he quickly dropped the knife on the floor and slid both hands into the incision he'd made, brow furrowed in concentration as his hands felt around for a few moments.

Aaron and Rory held their breath as they watched, and exhaled in a loud exclamation of relief as Michael pulled his hands back, clutching the feet of the blood-smeared baby as he slid it from Tabitha's womb.

The next few minutes were a blur to Aaron, as though _he_ were the one to have ingested the laudanum instead of Tabitha. He vaguely registered Michael's barked orders, the blood, the afterbirth, the child's piercing cries, and the feeling of the knife in his hand as he sliced through the baby's cord.

When Michael placed the child in Rory's arms, however, Aaron came out of his daze to object. "I still need you here, Aaron," Michael replied, cutting off the younger man's protests. "Rory, take the child downstairs to your sister, and keep him warm by the fire." Rory nodded wordlessly, and after a fleeting look in Aaron's direction, hurried to obey.

Michael had already retrieved a curved needle from Donovan's bag, along with a generous length of catgut and silk thread. "Go rest, Aaron," he said as Aaron eyed the needle. "I can manage from here, but you look half dead."

"Tabitha…?"

"Alive." He eased the needle in at the farthest edge of the incision. "I will wake you if there is any change, but at this moment, there is nothing more you can do for her." When Aaron made no indication of moving, Michael stomped his foot on the floorboards, the noise causing Aaron to jump slightly. "Downstairs. Now."

Reaching the bottom of the stairs without injury was a great surprise to Aaron, especially since the floor seemed to be spinning in a different direction with each step he took. The sound of the fire popping in the next room was welcoming, but nowhere near as welcoming as the muffled cries from the child swaddled in the oversized blanked that had once rested on the armchair beside the window.

Rory looked up from the fussing infant as soon as he heard Aaron's unsteady footsteps, and immediately rose from his seat by the fire to usher him into the room. "He's healthy," Rory said softly, passing the bundle to Aaron as he collapsed into the chair. "It's a miracle."

"Why are you here?" Aaron whispered in response, staring at the child, but not speaking to him.

"Moira," he replied, a brief flash of hurt twisting his features. "She informed me Tabitha was dying, and I…" He shook his head. "We were close, once, her and I. And you, as you seem to have forgotten." He added the last part with a slightly venomous tone, sinking into the chair opposite Aaron.

Aaron's eyes were heavier than they'd ever been in his life, but he couldn't tear his gaze from the child in his arms, who was now wrapping his miniscule fingers around the edge of the blanket. "I should thank her," he muttered distantly.

"No need," came the brusque reply. "She's returned home at my request." Aaron looked briefly up from his nephew, and Rory shrugged. "She was quite bitter about the way you pushed her aside. No, you needn't explain, I understand," he added hurriedly. "But she's always harbored feelings for you, and I suspect she only agreed to come tonight because believed caring for Tabitha would endear her to you somehow. I could have explained to her the impossibility of her fantasies—" Aaron's eyes narrowed sharply. "—but I felt no inclination to do so the moment she insinuated the child was yours."

"Is there a single soul in this city who would believe I am not involved in an incestuous relationship with my sister?"

Rory gave a soft snort as he pulled his knees to his chest. "There is; directly in front of you," he said. "We've known each other since we were children, Aaron. Your relationship with her is quite unconventional, but nothing that warrants such slander." Aaron's eyes slid shut as he made a soft hum of assent. Rory propped his chin on his knees, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. "I cannot begin to imagine what transgression I've committed to make you hate me so," he whispered, but his words fell on deaf ears as sleep finally, at long last, claimed the man in front of him. With a slow exhale, Rory climbed down from the chair to sit on the floor beside Aaron, easing the child from his arms.

* * *

Translations:

Le do thoil, a shagairt, oscail an doras - Please, Father, open the door  
Éist liom - Listen to me  
Tá mé ag éisteacht - I'm listening

Latin text is Ave Maria, or Hail Mary.


	24. Obvious

_December 1776, New York_

Returning to the boarding house from Lady Brightlea's took considerably less time than locating the lavish estate had, seeing as there was no longer a need to venture back into the Holy Ground. The name seemed to be a blasphemy in and of itself , and referring to that den of iniquity with any phrasing that could possibly imply sanctification irritated her more than it really should have.

But the city's vices weren't confined to the accursed ground between the college and the church, she realized, as she narrowly avoided getting pulled into a drunken fistfight only to collide quite forcefully with a middle-aged woman in a spectacularly low-cut gown.

"Watch where you're goin', girl!" the woman barked, and Tabitha quickly stepped back, amazed the collision hadn't dislodged one or both of the woman's large breasts.

"Forgive me," she replied quickly. "Lost my footing. Won't happen again." Before any other comments could be made, Tabitha scurried off into the crowd again, one hand sliding into her pocket for a reassuring grip on her dagger. She was beginning to regret leaving her pistol with Caleb. While she was less than impressed with the accuracy of most firearms, they at least looked intimidating and would guarantee her a bit more empty space around her person.

Someone had shouted in the crowd, but Tabitha had stopped trying to listen to the constant babble. She could see the welcoming windows of the boarding house ahead, and a sense of relief washed over her as she approached. Whoever had shouted before repeated their words, and with a jolt of her heart, Tabitha felt thick fingers close around her upper arm.

"I said, where ya goin, lassie?" the man said, his hot, foul breath blowing across her face as he spoke. "Yer a pretty li'l thing. Where-"

Whatever he'd planned on asking was immediately forgotten as he felt a solid object pressing into his crotch. The tip of Tabitha's knife pierced the fabric of his breeches, and he could feel the sharp scrape of the metal inching dangerously close to parts he'd rather not have damaged.

"Remove your hand." Tabitha ordered. Her voice left no room for argument, and the man's hand dislodged itself from her arm as quickly as it had latched on. "Go." As the man scampered away and Tabitha discreetly slipped the blade back into her pocket, she noticed another set of eyes watching her, this time from the doorway of the boarding house.

Townsend's face was impassive, betraying no sign that he'd just witnessed the near-castration of a man ten feet away. "That was no market you sent me to," Tabitha said shortly as she joined him under the overhang.

"Somehow, I doubt that was a problem for you," he replied with a pointed look to where her knife had disappeared.

Tabitha frowned, briefly entertaining a thought of showing this man how little of a problem such a place was for her. "Have you any rooms available?" she asked instead, fully removing her hand from her pocket. Townsend seemed to relax slightly-very slightly-as he gave a short nod, and as Tabitha followed him inside, she muttered, "Don't rush to my defense next time."

Townsend shot her an exasperated look over his shoulder, but said nothing.

* * *

The room was spacious-luxurious, even, by Tabitha's standards, and she allowed her eyes to slide shut as she sank into the mattress. The candle on the desk flickered ever so slightly in the growing shadows, casting a golden glow across the furnishings. Falling asleep would be far too easy st the moment, and with a soft groan, Tabitha pushed herself back to a sitting position.

Though she had located Charlotte, making contact was a different matter entirely. Posing as a servant could possibly get her inside, but what then? Tabitha had been introduced as Aaron, and if the posh little dumpling got wind that her safety was in the hands of a fellow woman, she might very well back out entirely. And the last thing Tabitha needed to deal with was a panicked girl in the middle of enemy territory.

No, she would have to make contact as Aaron. But how? She couldn't visit at Brightlea's house; that much was obvious. Her only option, therefore, would be to somehow encounter Charlotte in the city, if she ever ventured outside her lavish walls, of course.

She would have to make more inquiries the next morning, she decided, and flopped back onto the bed, boneless. Sleep sounded good at the moment.

* * *

Tabitha took longer than usual fixing her hair the next morning, attempting to replicate the stunning effect the innkeeper's wife had achieved the previous day. While she was not entirely unfamiliar with the usage of hairpins, she had avoided using them as often as she could throughout her youth-a decision she now regretted as one of the cursed objects slipped from her fingers for the tenth time in as many minutes.

She would be happy to return to her uniform once her business was complete.

Finally, after several muttered curses and one triumphant flourish, Tabitha had deemed herself presentable, and after a quick check to ensure her dagger was still snug in her pocket, she hurried down the stairs to the common area. The smell of porridge and eggs had been taunting her for over an hour now, and she paid no mind to Townsend's level stare as he passed her a bowl.

The man was unsettling, to say the least, and while she got the distinct impression that he was staring directly into her soul, she had more important things to worry about. He would have to forgive her lack of concern.

She hadn't expected to hear anything from him as she offered a hasty word of thanks before starting for the door, but his voice stopped her in her tracks before she could leave. "Did you manage to locate Ms. Woodhull?"

"No, I didn't," she lied quickly. "But I'm off to try again. Work is difficult to come by, and I couldn't possibly pass up so promising an offer."

Townsend gave a short nod and turned back to retrieve a pair of mugs left on the tabletop. "Good luck to you, then," he said. "There are far fewer jobs this close to the docks, and none to be found in here." Tabitha frowned, confused, until she met his strangely direct gaze and caught his meaning.

"I'm not seeking that sort of work, Mr. Townsend. You needn't worry about me sullying your establishment's reputation."

He gave a noncommittal shrug as he returned to his work, and Tabitha rolled her eyes as she exited into the brisk, if somewhat foul-smelling, morning air.

* * *

Lady Brightlea's house was a hubbub of activity that morning, which pleased Tabitha greatly as she was able to slip into the hustle and bustle undetected. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, but it made no difference. She was looking for something else today. Some source of information that wouldn't arouse too much suspicion. Someone willing to answer her questions without asking too many of their own.

And, ideally, someone who wouldn't mistake her for a prostitute again. That trend was getting annoying.

Possibly someone like… Her face split into a wide grin. Someone like _that_.

The boy couldn't have been more than twelve, she thought, watching him scurry around to the side of the house. He didn't seem to be in a rush, his hurried movements likely the simple byproduct of youthful exuberance. She followed at a leisurely pace, unsurprised when he failed to notice her approach as he ducked around the back.

She paused a few moments before following him into the yard, and was momentarily awestruck by the large contraption before her. A carriage, quite easily the finest carriage she'd ever seen, was being meticulously detailed both inside and out, and with a sudden wave of realization, Tabitha remembered the date.

New Year's Eve.

Miss Adams must be planning to attend a party that night, and a whole world of opportunity opened up before her. There was always the small possibility that Charlotte would elect to remain at home, but even if that were to happen, it would be much easier to gain access to the household if its occupants were out for the night.

"Hullo, miss!"

Tabitha started slightly as she realized she was being addressed, and quickly put on her most innocent smile as the young boy from before approached. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude," she said, pitching her voice slightly higher than usual. "It's just… I don't think I have ever seen so fine a carriage in my life!"

"Oh yes, it's quite lovely," he agreed with a large smile. "Lady Brightlea has fine taste."

Tabitha nodded, much more enthusiastically than she felt, and asked demurely, "May I have a closer look?"

The boy nodded eagerly. "Yes, of course," he said, and she smiled widely as she followed. "What's your name, Miss?"

"Tabitha," she replied promptly. "Yours?"

"My name's Jonathan," he said, ushering her closer to the carriage. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Tabitha."

"Likewise. Cleaning for New Year's Eve?" Tabitha asked as she was allowed to examine the fine ornamentation adorning the doors. "I'm sure a woman like Lady Brightlea has received countless invitations for tonight."

Jonathan nodded, then answered, "Yes, she's been invited to Major John Andre's masquerade this evening," once he remembered that Tabitha could hardly see any of his nonverbal responses with her attention focused on the carriage.

"Major Andre?" Tabitha repeated, turning to stare wide-eyed at Jonathan. "Sounds like quite the event. I'm afraid I've never encountered him before."

Jonathan tilted his head slightly. "You've never seen Major Andre?" he asked, amazed.

Tabitha shook her head, careful to stare at her shoes as though embarrassed. "I've only been in the city a short while," she admitted. "I'm actually looking for work. Do you know if the household is in need of any extra hands?"

Jonathan frowned for a moment in thought, then shook his head. "I don't believe so," he said slowly. "But you might want to ask around the Leneveu household. They're about a mile west of here."

Tabitha nodded with a gleeful smile, clasping her hands together as she bounced on the balls of her feet. "That's wonderful! Thank you so much, Jonathan!" she exclaimed. "I won't keep you from your work any longer. You've been very kind."

"It's no trouble," he replied with a slight blush. "Good luck!"

"Thank you," she said again as she turned to leave. The smile fell from her face the moment she turned her back, and she added, "You've been most helpful."

* * *

The Holy Ground was not a place she planned on revisiting, and she avoided it as best she could as she made her way toward King's College. She was grateful for the fact that many men were spectacularly clueless when it came to household chores, laundry especially, because this ineptitude all but guaranteed a college chock-full of privileged young men would have an on-site laundry facility.

This benefited her, because while she had enough coin on her to afford a room and stabling for her horse, she had nowhere near enough to afford a set of clothes fine enough to pass as a guest of this Major John Andre. And even if she could, she would have no idea where to start with donning the clothing. Aaron's clothes had belonged to her as much as they had to belonged to him, and while she was familiar with men's clothing, his clothes had been simple, a far cry from the finery she would be expected to wear that night.

Fortunately, it seemed a great number of the boys had planned on attending events that evening, and had sent their finest clothing to be laundered. This left Tabitha with a wide variety of options, as she browsed through the piles of clothes with a basket of linens she'd swiped from the other side of the doorway balanced on her hip. No one spared her a second glance, and after a couple minutes of searching, she found a pile of clothing that looked to be about her size. The note beside the pile read "Richard Lasey".

Tabitha quickly slunk out the side door, and took a moment to straighten her gown before re-entering through the main door. "Excuse me," she said to the first woman she encountered. "I was instructed to pick up Mr. Lasey's laundry. Is it ready?"

The woman eyed Tabitha curiously, but if she found anything suspicious about the situation, she declined to comment. Within a matter of minutes, Tabitha was presented with a freshly-wrapped bundle of laundry, along with a lengthy list of unpaid charges the woman all but ordered Tabitha to deliver with the clothes.

"I will," she assured. "I believe he sent me for fear of facing you himself." Her comment elicited a short barking laugh from the laundress, and Tabitha was on her way once more.

* * *

Time passed much too slowly for Tabitha's liking that evening. The clothing seemed fine enough to her comparatively uncivilized tastes, and once she'd finally figured out how to properly dress herself in the stolen garments, she felt every bit the gentleman, and took several minutes to admire the deep emerald silk of her coat as it caught the fading sunlight from her window. The material of her waistcoat, a rich, solid black, was just as fine, and the color was perfect for hiding any telltale signs of the linen she'd used to bind her chest-much tighter than usual, seeing as she was to be in unfriendly company that evening, and could risk no suspicion aimed towards her. However, just because the clothing felt fancy didn't mean she would come across as such. Her best bet, she decided, was to wait until later in the evening, when the majority of the partygoers would be too intoxicated to either care about or notice her attire.

As the hour grew late, Tabitha peered out the window. Snow had begun to fall in the darkness; lightly, but with the promise of more looming over the city. In hopes of staying relatively dry and looking at least somewhat presentable upon her arrival, she decided now was as good a time as any to depart, and after fastening her cloak over her shoulders, slid out the door, careful to close it soundlessly behind her. Townsend was already suspicious of her presence in the boarding house; that much she knew. And if he saw an unfamiliar man leaving one of the rooms at so late an hour, she feared he might consider his suspicions regarding her profession confirmed.

She encountered no one as she tip-toed down the hall and slowly descended the stairs, and after a quick glance around the corner, she deemed the coast clear and scurried for the door. However, not ten paces into the common room, she heard a familiar voice call to her, "Leaving so late, Miss McKenna?"

Tabitha's heart did a few calisthenics as she spun around, clutching her chest. "_Christ_, Townsend, don't you ever _sleep?!"_ she hissed, then clapped a hand to her mouth as the realization that she'd just blown her cover sank in. Townsend was seated at a table in the far corner of the room, obscured mostly by shadows as he drank from a mug that likely contained ale or something of the like. He didn't reply to her exclamation, but the expression on his face said everything. A brief flicker of his eyes as he took in her disguise, lingering momentarily on her cravat before his features shifted into a look of exasperation. "It's New Year's Eve," she said after the silence stretched on. He raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly not finding any relevance or explanation as to why the girl seeking temporary lodging during her search for employment was now sneaking out garbed in men's finery so late in the evening. "I thought it best to present myself as a man, so as not to be accosted on the streets by any of the numerous drunkards I'm likely to encounter."

He remained unconvinced, just as she knew he would. Tabitha gestured half-heartedly at her clothes. "Borrowed these from a friend," she muttered, not expecting him to believe her.

"I hope that friend can offer you lodging come tomorrow," Townsend said finally, and Tabitha nodded. She hadn't really expected she would be allowed to stay after this particular event. She knew how it must look. Asking after a wealthy woman the moment she arrived in town, emerging unscathed from the Holy Ground, fending off men with a knife, and now leaving her room garbed in clothing far out of her price range. Likely, he thought her a thief.

She counted herself lucky he hadn't decided to turn her over to the local authorities.

"I will be gone by morning," she promised, and Townsend seemed satisfied. "I'll be returning late tonight," she added as an afterthought. "You needn't wait up for me, but I'll understand if you do."

She had become accustomed to his lack of responses to anything she said, and wasn't surprised when he remained silent yet again. But when he placed the now-empty mug on the table with an audible clunk as he rose to his feet, Tabitha took an involuntary step back. Perhaps he'd changed his mind about the authorities after all.

"You look ridiculous," he said as he approached, and Tabitha's eye twitched in irritation. "Here, let me." He reached for her cravat, and she held stock-still, hardly daring to breathe as she fought the urge to reach for the knife concealed in her waistcoat. "You've tied it like a hangman's noose," he grumbled, re-wrapping and tying the fabric with practiced ease, then giving it a firm tug at the completion of his work. "Try not to be so obvious."

Tabitha nodded mutely, quickly sidestepping the man and making for the door. "Thank you," she said finally, hand resting on the burnished doorknob. "Good evening, Mr. Townsend."


	25. Games

Note: This chapter runs parallel to chapters 20, 21 and 22 of AlyssaPierceArrow's By Land or By Sea. If you, by some off chance, haven't read it, you might want to get on that!

* * *

If she was being honest with herself-a rare event in and of itself-she would admit to being relieved at how easy worming her way into Major Andre's lavish masquerade had been. However, she was not in the business of honesty on this particular night, and if ever she was asked to recount the tale at a later time, she would simply describe her relief as both amusement and disappointment, and no one would be the wiser.

Claiming her mask had fallen in the slush after an ill-fated slip on the ice had been simple enough, and she was quickly ushered toward a small basket of spare masks tucked into a corner. Tabitha knew the ease in which she assimilated into the festivities was largely due to the copious amount of liquor that had already been consumed by the numerous partygoers, most of which were likely well into their glasses hours before her arrival.

The mask Tabitha selected was relatively simple when compared to some of the garish monstrosities she'd witnessed as she slunk through the hallway. She had no idea what it was she was supposed to be portraying, but quickly found that she wasn't alone in her indifference towards the matter. While the question of her costume might have been an issue earlier in the evening, this late into the festivities, the most pressing question she'd been asked was a slurred "Do you know who I am?" from a squat woman in a mask decorated with peacock feathers.

She had no idea who the woman might be, but she was fairly certain that it was not Charlotte. Unless, of course, the girl had shrunk a foot and a half, changed her hair color and gained a noticeable amount of weight in her face. Silently praying for the number of women with red hair at the party to be minimal, Tabitha hastily stepped around the shorter woman and darted past the doorway before ducking into the lavish ballroom to her left.

The candles had burned low, and Tabitha found the creeping shadows working to her advantage. So long as she kept to the edges of the room where it was noticeably darker, she could observe the dancers and minglers uninterrupted.

There was a short flurry of movement across the room, and Tabitha felt her breath catch in her chest as the figure beside the window turned to face her, red hair and porcelain skin contrasting sharply with the black silk of her gown and mask. The grace with which she moved was not something Tabitha was likely to forget, and while nearly all of the partygoers walked and danced with a practiced grace, Charlotte's movements were a class of their own.

If her enormous, billowing skirt hindered her in any way, she showed no sign of it as she delicately made her way across the room, pausing next to the enormous fireplace. Tabitha held her in her sight, silently urging the woman to leave the room for somewhere less crowded.

Then Charlotte looked up, and their eyes locked.

Though most of her face was obscured by the meticulously detailed mask, Tabitha could still see the subtle shifts in Charlotte's expression. The confusion, the frown as she studied Tabitha's appearance, seemingly attempting to discern her identity. It was a fruitless endeavor, Tabitha thought, condescending even in her own thoughts. No doubt the girl was trying to make a connection between her and some other acquaintance of hers, and Tabitha was willing to let her draw whatever conclusions she wished, so long as it allowed her to get the girl away from prying eyes where they could speak.

Charlotte's lips parted a fraction, and her eyes widened noticeably behind the mask as she took a step back. Tabitha frowned, the realization that perhaps Miss Adams was more observant than she'd come to believe slowly sinking in.

Now that she had Charlotte's full attention, she slowly made her way across the floor to where the girl still stood frozen by the fireplace, side-stepping the dancers departing the floor and weaving around the ones who'd elected to stay put.

Charlotte was moving too, she realized belatedly. The girl was clearly unsettled, but the momentary panic she'd shown minutes before was nowhere to be found on her face as they approached the center of the floor.

"Ladies and Gentlemen…"

Charlotte's eyes were boring into hers now as they stood alongside the other dancers, alight with curiosity and uncertainty, scrutinizing every visible detail while simultaneously trying for a certain level of discretion.

"A Contradance Allemande….. l'etoile!"

The orchestra leader could have been speaking Greek for all Tabitha knew, but the rest of the dancers, Charlotte included, seemed to understand perfectly. As the music started and Charlotte curtseyed, black silk pooling about her feet, Tabitha bowed as Aaron had done numerous times before, careful to match the speed and technique of the gentlemen next to her. If the overall effect came across as awkward in execution, Charlotte made no sign of having noticed.

The dance itself was a different matter entirely. Tabitha was no stranger to dancing, but familiarity did not quite equal talent in her case. However, the steps were simple enough to follow when mirroring the other men, and after a few steps, she felt a bit more confident in her movements as she and Charlotte approached each other.

"Are we discovered?" she whispered, and Tabitha shook her head ever so slightly as they separated to make a revolution around the floor. Charlotte still looked apprehensive when their paths crossed yet again, and Tabitha replied with a verbal 'no'.

As their hands joined, Charlotte whispered once more, voice still apprehensive, but not as breathless as it had been before. "Are we suspected?" Tabitha was certain the girl saw the firm shake of her head this time, and began to focus slightly more on the dancers beside them as she waited to see if Charlotte would speak again. The contradance had seemed simple enough at first, but alongside an experienced dancer like Charlotte, Tabitha was beginning to feel a bit unsure of her movements.

"We must speak," Tabitha whispered once it became clear Charlotte was waiting for her to do so. "Privately."

The dancers were switching places once again, and Tabitha grumbled internally. It seemed the ridiculous twirling would never end, and the movements were growing ever more complicated, requiring more of her attention as she struggled to keep up. Her gaze fell on Charlotte once more. The girl moved as though dancing came as naturally to her as breathing, and perhaps it did. "Brightlea's home," she whispered once they were close. Tabitha gave a curt nod as they separated and Charlotte moved back to the outside circle. The route to the lavish estate mapped itself out in her head, and she felt her concentration momentarily slip. Only a discreet tilt of Charlotte's head alerted Tabitha to the fact that she was mirroring her contact's moves, not the men beside her, and she quickly fell back into step as she and Charlotte approached one another once more. "Fourth window, ground floor. East." Tabitha could feel Charlotte's breath ghosting across the side of her face, and smelled the faintest hint of sweet brandy. Not enough to inhibit the girl, thankfully. Any unsteadiness on her part was entirely due to nerves, then.

The dance finally drew to a close, and Tabitha bowed fluidly with the other gentlemen as Charlotte curtsied. As Charlotte breezed past her, Tabitha caught the soft words uttered as she departed, "Quick as I can."

True to her word, Charlotte hurried off into the crowd, and as Tabitha stared after her, she became aware of a new set of eyes watching her. She wasn't familiar with any of the people in attendance aside from Charlotte, but she got the distinct impression that the black-clad man in the doorway was someone whose acquaintance she wasn't eager to make. Fortunately, he seemed to be slightly inebriated, and his attention turned to Charlotte quickly enough. Tabitha wondered briefly if she should be concerned, but his shift in focus offered her a short window to escape undetected, and she took it without hesitation.

Miss Adams would have to handle herself.

* * *

The snow fell in obscuring flurries, chilling Tabitha through her silk jacket and stockings, leaving a heartfelt wish for her sturdier and infinitely warmer uniform in its wake. But the snow had the fortunate bonus of reflecting the light from the street lamps while simultaneously hiding her from view of anyone foolish to be wandering about in such a storm.

Tabitha cursed as her foot sank into a large puddle, feeling the icy bite of the slushy water as she stumbled and only just managed to retain her footing. The sooner she could toss the ridiculous finery and don her boots again, the better. Brightlea's house loomed in the distance, but she could see no sign of Charlotte's ornate carriage. With an irritated growl, she slipped into the shadows alongside the window Charlotte had indicated. 'Quick as she could' wasn't quick enough in this blistering chill.

She passed the time waiting by imagining vivid scenarios where Charlotte would be forced to wait outdoors for an unspecified length of time in various forms of miserable weather. Let her freeze her dainty little feet in a puddle. See how gracefully she could move in those huge gowns after standing an hour in the sweltering sun. Would her hair be as elegant after being forced to trek through a downpour? Would she-

Tabitha's thoughts were scattered as the window creaked open, and without even bothering to ensure it was indeed Charlotte on the other side, she clambered into the welcoming warmth of the house.

Two women stood inside the room: Charlotte, unsurprisingly, and a horrified-looking woman who was eyeing the slush and water dripping from Tabitha's hair and clothes with mild apprehension. Tabitha gave Charlotte a pointed stare, then gave a swift glance at the other woman, silently asking why the latter was present.

Charlotte seemed to catch the meaning, and as she stiffly placed her hands by her side, said "This is… m-my… Sukey." Tabitha nodded offhandedly. She could care less about the woman's name, but if Charlotte wasn't concerned about having her present, she supposed she couldn't be, either.

Tabitha eyed Charlotte briefly before speaking, wondering how Caleb and Ben would react upon learning Charlotte was enlisting her own help. "I'm sorry we have to meet like this," she began, allowing her voice to slip into a slightly exaggerated rendition of her brother's after a long night of drinking. Now that they were alone, she needed Charlotte distracted. Caleb clearly hadn't been exaggerating when he spoke of Charlotte's intelligence. "I know ya were under the impression meets an drops would be between yerself and Lt. Brewster, but due ta…" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "unforeseen circumstances… the Lieutenant sent me in his place."

"Circumstances?" Charlotte repeated. "What…circumstances? Has something happened?"

Of course she'd want to hear the story, Tabitha thought irritably, nose wrinkling slightly as she replied, "Washington sent his troops down the Delaware late Christmas Day." Charlotte waited, breathless, for more, and Tabitha obliged with a roll of her eyes. "Captain Tallmadge, sure-footed as ever, took a wee tumble inta the river."

Charlotte pressed a gloved hand to her chest, seemingly unaware of the movement. Her face, already pale in the dim light, now seemed whiter than the snow. "The river?" she breathed. "It's freezing…"

'_Quite the observant one.'_ Tabitha had only just managed to avoid voicing this particularly rude sentiment, and instead opted to continue as though the girl had said nothing. "We pulled him out, and Lt. Brewster and I stayed behind. Fed 'im, warmed 'im. The resta the division went ahead without us."

Charlotte was pacing now, and Tabitha couldn't begin to wonder what had distressed her so. She had been clear that Ben survived, hadn't she? "And where is h-where are they… now?" Charlotte whispered, pausing as she waited for Tabitha's response.

"I am not here ta discuss the finer points of the Captain's health," Tabitha snapped, irritated at Charlotte's apparent priorities. "You were recruited ta gather information for the Continental Army. I need that information."

Charlotte's demeanor took an abrupt turn, her back straightening as all emotion was carefully wiped from her face, leaving behind a mask of haughty disdain to rival Tabitha's own. "What information?" she asked with feigned confusion, and Tabitha felt her blood boil. This… insolent little brat… had the _nerve…_!

"Don' play simple with me, Miss Adams," she snarled. "I havena time for games. We were sent down the Delaware ta attack Hessians in Trenton. Yer cousin gave us tha' intelligence. You have Major Andre's attention." She spat the last part despite having no proof, but the look on Charlotte's face was a clear enough answer for her. "Don' try and tell me ya've heard nothin."

Charlotte remained unmoved by her outburst, and replied, "I share information directly with my handler. Especially now that my… profile has risen, as you say."

"Yer handler lies unconscious-half-frozen an' near death at the side o' the river!" Tabitha shot back, feeling a brief wave of joy at the knowledge of the pain the simple statement was likely to cause the girl. "Until yer otherwise informed, Miss Adams, _I_ am your handler."

Tabitha fought back a satisfied smirk as Charlotte resumed her pacing, a cruel sense of satisfaction overtaking her as the girl's shoulders sagged slightly. But when Charlotte spoke, it was with the same firm clarity as before. "Never in our brief correspondence or...limited interaction" Tabitha arched an eyebrow at the pause. "was I told to default to any other handler than he in case of exceptional circumstances. You'll forgive me for taking my duty to His Excellency's cause more to heart than to abandon such valuable information with one unfamiliar to me," she shot a pointed look at Tabitha. "especially one possessed of so shockingly callous a disregard for his superior's wellbeing."

Tabitha straightened to her full height, and though she was not quite towering over Charlotte, certainly had the intimidating effect she'd desired, even if the girl remained rooted to the floor as she advanced. "Unfamiliar?" Tabitha repeated in a low growl. "Ya recognized me from the docks. Captain Tallmadge himself introduced us. Do ya have such lil faith in the Captain's judgement that ya distrust his own agents?"

Charlotte seemed offended by such a suggestion, but if the firm line of her lips was anything to go by, Tabitha knew, short of strangling the girl with the strand of pearls around her porcelain neck, she was unlikely to get any information out of her. While she would normally have elected to end the conversation and leave Charlotte to stew in apprehension, she quickly remembered her words to Caleb at the riverside, and the somber truth behind them.

He couldn't run.

She decided to switch tactics. "He carries a scarf in his shirt," she said abruptly, clearly surprising Charlotte with the statement. "One I believe yer familiar with."

Her gloved hands pressed together, fingertips resting against her lips as her eyes slid shut. She was trembling, Tabitha noticed, and upon seeing the first crack in the girl's mask, reached into her waistcoat for the knife. If the mere mention of the scarf had such a profound effect on the girl, the knife would be her undoing.

Sukey had started forward as Tabitha retrieved the knife, but at the latter's exasperated expression and the realization she was holding the blade by its leather sheath, stopped at Charlotte's side. "He wishes ta return the gesture," she said as she offered Charlotte the blade. "This was his father's, and now it is yers. The carvin's are his own, if you couldn' tell by the lack o' skill."

Charlotte's face lost all traces of its former stubbornness, a soft smile gracing her features as she accepted the knife, her fingers ghosting across the carvings on the handle. Tabitha bit her lip to keep from making any rude remarks as Charlotte then pressed it to her collarbones, seeming to curl around the item as though by embracing it, she could embrace the man who had gifted it to her. A single tear leaked from her closed eyes, and Tabitha only barely refrained from letting out an exasperated sigh.

"We must go to New Jersey."

Tabitha's mouth fell open as Charlotte resolutely wiped the tear from her face, and was pleased to see Sukey mirroring her irritation. If the other woman was as opposed to Charlotte's ludicrous statement as she herself was, there was a fair chance the girl could be dissuaded.

"Yes. Yes, we will… we will… take advantage of our invitation from Martha." Tabitha's hands curled into fists, and she ground her teeth as she fought the urge to smack the girl upside her pretty head. "She is residing there, soon to be married and move into a home of her own, and she has informed us we are most welcome."

"Ya have no business in Morristown, Miss Adams, and I'll no let meself be demoted should ya be injured on the road," Tabitha snapped over Charlotte's rambling. "Yer of no use to anyone if ya leave the city."

Charlotte continued babbling as though Tabitha hadn't spoken. "I'll draft a letter, purportedly from Martha stating she's anxious - no - desperate to see me, that she is in need of help in planning the affair," Tabitha brought up a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut as she willed herself to wake up from this nightmare "being without her mother, and with an ailing father and disabled brother still in Virginia, and we'll suggest to Aunt Catharine that I call for my carriage and continue on to New Jersey. She and Lady Brightlea will be thrilled I'm taking an interest in matrimony."

"You might pose as a relative meaning to deliver her correspondence to me while on business to Setauket." Tabitha opened her eyes as she realized she was being addressed. "Finding me not at home yet alerted by her servants, you are calling here to the house in the process of returning to Morristown, and are offering to escort me."

The hopeful look in her eyes only served to irritate Tabitha further. "Make all the arrangements ya feel necessary, Miss Adams," she said curtly. "But I assure ya, you'll not set foot in the camp. I have General Scott's ear, and if I ask him to deny ya entry, you'll be turned away before ya even lay eyes on Morristown."

Charlotte's face fell, mouth opening slightly in indignation. Tabitha stared back at her, jaw set and bracing herself for further challenge, convinced though she was that she'd won this round. But not ten seconds later, the mischief was back in Charlotte's eyes, and Tabitha felt a wave of uneasiness grip her stomach. "That is rather impressive," Charlotte said with a purr. "Having the General's ear at such a…delicate age. And how old are you, _Mr._ McKenna?"

Tabitha gulped, eyes shifting as she answered. "I'm 22."

It was Charlotte's turn to advance now, and Tabitha was bewildered that the girl would willingly place herself so close to a man she was unfamiliar with. Unless…

"You must forgive me for what I am about to ask," she said, pausing dramatically before continuing. "Do Ben and Caleb know you're only pretending to be a man?" Tabitha's jaw dropped. "More importantly," she continued in that same condescending purr, "is General Scott aware?"

Shit.

The smug smile adorning Charlotte's mouth was positively sickening, and as Sukey glanced between the two women, Tabitha replied, desperately, "I don' know where ya got such a ridiculous idea-"

"Who are you?"

Charlotte's voice was lower this time, all traces of playfulness and laughter suddenly gone. Two could play at that game, though, and Tabitha summoned all the authority she'd grown accustomed to wielding into her voice. "I am Lieutenant Aaron McKenna of the Second Regiment Light Dragoons, and until further notice, I am yer handler."

No luck. Charlotte simply toyed with the knife in her hands, and sighed the way she would had she been dealing with a stubborn child. "It is imperative that I trust you," she said. "And I cannot do so when you are lying to me."

With a defeated groan, Tabitha pressed her hand back to the bridge of her nose, letting her voice fall back into its natural cadence as she asked, "How did you know?"

Charlotte's small smile was like salt in her wounded pride. "You have the loveliest skin I have ever beheld on a man," she said with a small laugh. "And you are the only gentleman I have ever had occasion to dance with who defaulted to the ladies' part three quarters through."

Tabitha shook her head slightly, bitter in her defeat. "My name is Tabitha," she said finally, as the silence stretched on. "Aaron McKenna was my brother. He was captured and hanged earlier this year." She fought back the lump in her throat that always made itself known whenever she mentioned her brother, and continued, "Tallmadge and Brewster are both aware, and that is part of the reason I was asked to accompany them that night at the docks. They asked for my opinion of you, as a woman, before allowing you to assist Mr. Woodhull."

Charlotte's face had taken on a somewhat gentler expression, for which Tabitha was grateful. If the girl had thought to make a comment mocking the circumstances surrounding her presence in the army, she did not think she could have refrained from physically assaulting her, consequences be damned. "I'll not ask you why," she replied instead, and Tabitha felt her heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with anger. "I am certain I can imagine. If they trust you, I'll trust you." Charlotte paused, the hopeful look returning to her face. "Until tomorrow?" Tabitha didn't understand why the girl was even bothering to ask. She would say Charlotte had her by the balls at this point, but it was only in a figurative sense.

"Very well," Tabitha replied through clenched teeth. "Until tomorrow." She had half-turned back to the window when another thought struck her. "And one more thing…" she added, voice somewhat more subdued. "General Scott knows nothing of who I am, and it is important he remains in the dark."

Charlotte shook her head, and through the short wave of paranoia she'd felt, Tabitha noted the apparent sincerity behind the gesture. "I would not betray you, so long as we remain on the same side," she said. "It is my sincere hope that we will."

She passed the knife from her right hand to the left, extending her free hand to Tabitha in a hopeful gesture of camaraderie. Reluctant though she was to accept it, Tabitha felt openly insulting the girl was not exactly in her best interests, but couldn't resist a small quip as their hands touched. _"Trasna ort féin,"_ she said clearly, feeling her mood lighten at the confusion on Charlotte's face.

"To you as well," Charlotte replied hesitantly, and Tabitha pulled her hand back as she turned fully toward the window. Cold as the night was, the biting cold was a welcome sensation on her skin when compared to the smothering atmosphere of the stuffy old house, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she ducked out the window and disappeared into the night.

* * *

Translation:  
Trasna ort féin - Go fuck yourself


	26. Reins of a Waterfall

In all likelihood, though it seemed the temperature had fallen by a good twenty degrees in the last half-hour since she had entered Lady Brightlea's home, the intensity of the chill in the air was simply that much more pronounced in comparison to the flames smoldering in the fireplace. The wind had died down noticeably since her last trek through the slushy streets, but the snow fell heavier than ever, obscuring her vision even further in the darkness. Errant flakes clung to her brows and lashes, and after hastily blinking the meltwater out of her eyes, she bowed her head against the flurries, focusing instead on her footing on the uneven cobblestone road. The stones soon gave way to frosted mud as she neared her destination, and her focus turned from her footing to sidestepping the numerous pits and furrows carved into the earth by passing wagons and carriages.

Distracted as she was, it took her a good ten minutes to realize she'd already passed the boarding house, and she doubled back with a muttered curse, pulling her cloak tighter across her shoulders. The chill had seeped through her flesh into the very marrow of her bones, and it seemed her heart, in lieu of beating, was shivering along with the rest of her limbs. Her entire body was tense, as though preparing for a fight, and however she tried, the muscles refused to relax and instead shuddered with renewed vigor as she hurried toward her destination.

Her body's reaction to the cold—natural though it was—left her stomach twisting in uneasy knots. It wasn't fear of the chill itself, even with her uncomfortable familiarity of the devastation it could leave in its wake when one was ill-prepared for a long winter. No, the chill itself wasn't frightening. The lack of control and basic, primal reactions of her body, on the other hand, left her feeling altogether powerless. A strange thing to be frightened by, she knew, but Tabitha had long prided herself on maintaining strict control of herself in many ways. In hindsight—fitting that his name should surface in her memory in the midst of such an unpleasant moment—perhaps it had been her unwillingness to relinquish control that had driven such wedge between herself and Ben. He'd been patient with her. Almost unnaturally so, but Tabitha had known his patience was, most likely, a mixture of confusion, shock, and a simple unfamiliarity with her behaviour.

She'd always known men to be dominant creatures, but as the years passed, she had come to suspect this was not necessarily their natural disposition. Social norms dictated they control their wives, who, in Tabitha's mind, were in no higher standing than indentured servants they could take into their beds. A man had a specific role to play, whether he liked it or not, and if he could not assume it naturally, he would have to do whatever he could to keep up appearances.

She couldn't say for certain, even after their brief engagement, which of the two categories Benjamin Tallmadge fell into. He had certainly been kind—even with her distaste for the man, she could not deny him this one virtue. Had they met under different circumstances, she could very easily see herself calling him one of her dearest friends. But a romantic partnership between them was clearly never meant to be. She didn't know, and had never thought to ask, what he expected from a woman. Did he desire a wife who would do nothing more than stay home, belly swollen with child? Or perhaps one who would fill his ears with gossip about her companions and her needlepoint? Or, perhaps, a woman like Miss Adams? Outspoken. yet demure. Fiery, yet subdued. Willful yet submissive.

Whatever he favored, Tabitha thought with a soft snort, it was not anything she had had been willing or able to provide. And while she could not testify to his preferences with any accuracy, she could safely say that he was quite put off by the constant struggle for dominance between the two of them. She hadn't trusted him. How could she, in such a short period of time? And until such a time that he earned that sort of conviction from her, she would not—_could_ not—relinquish even the slightest bit of control around him.

Hardly a solid foundation for a marriage.

But that chapter of her life was over, and she could only hope that whatever the future held for him and Miss Adams, it would be sufficient to erase anything that had occurred between them in the past.

The boarding house was a welcoming beacon of warmth in the growing blizzard, and Tabitha hastily put all thoughts of the infuriating Captain out of her mind as she hurried toward the negligible shelter provided by the overhang above the door. The windows were dark and the building was silent, even moreso with the muffled silence cast by the blanket of snow.

Tentatively, she tested the doorknob, and the breath left her lungs in a relieved rush when she found it unlocked. It seemed Townsend had decided to wait up for her after all, if only to ensure his presumed pickpocket of a customer didn't make off with the dishes while he slept. 'If only you knew,' she thought with a wry smirk as she slipped into the warmth of the common room, giving her cloak a quick shake to dislodge the accumulated snow. It wouldn't do to drip water across the floor, especially after he'd been so kind as to allow her one final night instead of leaving her to freeze on the streets.

She closed the door soundlessly behind her and, after a moment's consideration, slid the latch into place as well. She doubted anyone else would be out in such miserable weather. As she turned to face the room sprawled out behind her, she became acutely aware of just how dark it truly was. There hadn't been much light on the road either, but the glow of the windows along her route had been noticeably amplified by the reflective surface of the snowflakes.

Inside, however, there were only the low-burning coals of the fire to light the room, and she listened closely for any sign of movement as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Townsend wouldn't have gone to bed after leaving the door unlocked for a suspected thief. As the shadows slowly receded into vaguely discernable shapes, and with no sound of footfalls on the wooden floorboards, she slowly made her way toward the fireplace. While the room was infinitely warmer than the streets that lay beyond its colourful windows, Tabitha's limbs still trembled, and both her hands and feet were painfully cold. The snow, which had gathered in contrasting clumps amidst the disheveled strands of her dark hair, was slowly melting, and she could feel the wholly unpleasant sensation of icy water trickling down the back of her neck to where it gathered in her already sodden cravat.

She had nearly reached the fireplace, and could feel the warmth in her cheeks and the tip of her nose as she loosened the dripping silk from around her neck, when she finally saw him. Townsend was seated at the table closest to the fire, head resting on his arms, his breaths slow and even as he slept. Tabitha felt the briefest pang of guilt at having kept him up so late when he was quite clearly exhausted, but it was forgotten as soon as she dropped to the floor in an exhausted heap, feeling the tension ease out of her body as the warmth of the coals washed over her body. Behind her, Townsend still slept, unaware of his problem guest's return, and Tabitha made no move to wake him. Instead, she made short work of her cloak and jacket, tossing them over the back of an unoccupied chair before rubbing her hands together to restore the circulation. Her waistcoat had, miraculously, remained mostly dry, and once the feeling had seeped back into her fingers, she went about removing her shoes and stockings.

As the chill slowly drained from her limbs, she found herself idly reflecting on the events of the night and felt a new wave of irritation at the thought of Miss Adams, though somewhat subdued compared to the outright anger she'd experienced earlier. She'd entered the city with a single mission: To find and retrieve information from a sheltered girl who had no knowledge of the significance said information held. She'd succeeded in the first part, which Tabitha had anticipated being the most difficult of the two. But never in her wildest dreams had she expected to have the tables turned on her by this… this…

She ground her teeth in exasperation, words failing her exhausted mind as she rubbed her eyes with her palms. The heat of the fireplace coupled with the surrounding darkness was slowly lulling her into a trance. Her hand slid down her cheek to rest over the side of her mouth as she yawned, feeling the slightest hint of wetness in the corner of her eyes.

There was a soft, muffled sound from behind her, and Tabitha glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to find Townsend awake and looking irritable as ever. But still he slept, table creaking ever so slightly as he buried his face deeper into the fabric of his shirtsleeves, and the corners of Tabitha's mouth quirked slightly. She knew she should wake the man and inform him of her return, but he seemed so… content. Peaceful. And yes, he would almost definitely have terrible pain in his neck and back come morning, but she couldn't bring herself to care as she tugged her mostly dry cloak off the chair and clambered to her feet. If she was going to let him rest, she could at least do him a kindness, and gently, with the care one might have expected from a mother, she draped the thick fabric over his shoulders.

He had waited so patiently for her to return, she reasoned. She could at least wait for him to wake. Lowering herself back onto the floor beside his chair, shoulder pressed against the worn wood, she sighed heavily. Coming to York City had been a mistake, she realized belatedly. Even if Charlotte did, in fact, have relevant information to convey and wasn't just looking for an excuse to see her dear _Captain_ again, by the time she saw fit to reveal it in Morristown, it would be too late.

_Don't come back here, alright?_

Caleb's voice was clear in her mind, as though it was he sitting beside her, not Townsend. He had been adamant about her staying away, and from a strategic standpoint, she understood why. One of them had to make it back to Morristown alive. It was an order. It made perfect sense. And yet…

She would be lying if she said the thought of returning hadn't crossed her mind. The first mile had been the hardest, knowing there was still time to change her mind and go back. To lead Cinnamon back to the makeshift shelter and say… what, exactly?

_I don't know the way._

_The horse broke a leg._

_I can't leave you here._

_I don't want to lose you._

The last thought wasn't as shocking to her as it should have been. The image of Ben and Caleb being discovered and shot had been with her since she'd first lost sight of the two, but she'd managed to bury it in the urgency surrounding her mission. Now, in the darkness, subduing the thought of their cooling corpses lying in the forest was like holding the reins of a waterfall, and it surfaced in the forefront of her mind with unsettling clarity.

She wanted to go back. She wanted to sleep by a fire surrounded by cannons and horses, not tables and chairs. She wanted to feel the rough wool and stiff linen of her uniform, not fine silk stolen from a well-off college boy. She wanted to feel men's eyes on her as they awaited her orders, not as they admired her breasts.

She wanted to hear Ben and Caleb's harsh words-critical of her actions as a soldier, not as a woman.

These thoughts were the last she could clearly remember before she finally slipped into a dreamless sleep, slumped against the table leg with her knees drawn to her chest.


	27. Jamie

Robert Townsend woke before the sun-not unusual in his line of work, but throughout his life, he has grown accustomed to waking in a bed. This morning, however, found him hunched over the table, head cushioned by his arms, with a noticeable chill settled deep within his cheekbones and fingertips. Recollection hit as his bleary gaze lingered on the cold hearth beside him, and he sat up with a sudden wave of apprehension. He looked behind him just in time to see an unfamiliar cloak slide down from where it had rested on his shoulders, catching on the back of his chair before it could hit the floor.

Gaze following the path of the dark wool, he quickly found its owner slumped heavily against the table leg, silk coat pulled across her chest like a blanket as she slept. Townsend let out an annoyed sigh, barely audible over the rustle of fabric as he got to his feet. The woman sleeping on his boarding house floor bore very little resemblance to the one who had attempted to sneak past him the night before. Her hair-so meticulously arranged the night before-was a hopeless mess of tangles and curls knotted around the barely-visible ribbon, her bare feet were speckled with dried mud, and her coat was stained and wrinkled beyond reason, likely from the accumulated snowmelt coupled with her awkward sleeping position.

He was tempted to wake her, as he felt she should have done him the night before, but she didn't appear to be in possession of any items that could be considered stolen, so with a slight roll of his eyes, he let her be and set to work re-kindling the fire.

_July 1776, Maryland_

Tabitha's third return to consciousness was no more pleasant than the previous two. The humidity was stifling, the blankets were uncomfortably thick and heavy, the air smelled of stale sweat, and her tongue was overwhelmed with the metallic tang of blood. The memory of overwhelming pain was still sharp in her mind from the last time she'd attempted to sit on her own, so she settled for craning her neck as far as she could, looking around the room for any sign of life.

She was alone, she quickly realized. But the house was not empty. From outside her room-on the stairs, or perhaps beyond them-she could hear raised voices. Aaron and Father Michael, unless she was mistaken. Arguing, it seemed, but she couldn't be certain.

After some time-it felt like hours, but could have been only minutes-she heard footsteps approaching her door.

"Aaron?" There was a small whimpering sound from the doorway, and Tabitha felt her heart leap into her throat as she struggled to sit up. "Aaron, is that-?"

Aaron's voice was gentler than she'd heard it in years as he approached her bedside. "I've brought someone to see you," he said, presenting her with a small, squirming bundle of blankets. What air was left in Tabitha's lungs left in a punched-out gasp as the child was placed in her arms.

There were a thousand words she wanted to say the moment she laid eyes on the impossibly small child in her arms. Words of joy, of gratitude, of relief, of hope... but the tiniest noise from her son, and the words died in her mouth. It was a strange feeling, she would later recall, to have one's entire vocabulary wiped from accessible memory. To have a mind completely devoid of logical and organized thought, replaced instead by a single, all-consuming image. There were no words. No thoughts. Only the blue of her son's eyes, the softness of his skin, the tiniest wisps of black hair, and the strangest sensation of tears trailing unchecked down her cheeks, but feeling as though they came from someone else entirely.

_"Cad is ainm dó?"_

The question echoed in Tabitha's ears, not registering in her dazed mind until it was repeated, a hint of a laugh evident in Aaron's voice.

"Séamus," she whispered in reply, trailing a finger along the delicate skin of her son's cheek. _"Séamus is ainm dó."_

"Father would be honored," Aaron said softly, tears in his voice, but not in his eyes. "But he would insist on a nickname, you know."

"Jamie, then," Tabitha conceded with a small laugh.

"May I?" She nodded as Aaron reached out for his nephew, relaxing back into her pillows as he took the child from her arms. "He's beautiful, Tabitha. Just like his mother."

She wanted to reply, to offer more to the moment than a whispered name and tears, but exhaustion was claiming her again, and she could only lay back and watch through heavy eyes as Aaron held baby Jamie, rocking him gently as he sang.

_"Ó slán is céad on taobh so uaim_  
_Cois Maighe na gcaor na gcraobh na gcruach..."_

His voice was soft, melodic, soothing. Everything it had always been as far back as she could remember.

_"...gan sult, gan seoid, gan spórt, gan spionnadh_  
_Ó seoladh mé chun uaignis."_

"So sad," she whispered, tongue heavy in her mouth as she tried her best not to slur her words. "...shouldn't be saying goodbye..."

When she heard Aaron's whispered apology, she tried to comment. But sleep claimed her before she could string the words together.

_January 1777, York City_

Tabitha awoke with a start, slamming her head on the underside of the table as she sat up. Robert merely arched an eyebrow at the string of curses, the corner of his mouth twitching in the slightest hint of a grin.

"What's the time?" she muttered at length, clutching the side of her head as she emerged from beneath the table.

"Not yet dawn, Miss McKenna," Robert replied simply from his place across the room. "I trust you had an enjoyable evening?"

Tabitha grumbled, picking her discarded stockings and shoes up from the floor. "Hardly what I would call 'enjoyable', Mr. Townsend. I am, once again, utterly astonished at the sheer _arrogance_ of-" She broke off, shaking her head. "No matter. I've found new lodgings, in any case, so this is the last you'll be seeing of me."

If Robert had any reaction whatsoever to this statement, it didn't show on his face. Instead, he uttered a simple "ah" and went on with his work, and Tabitha took the opportunity to make her way back up the stairs to her room, where the hated stays and petticoats awaited her.

* * *

Translations:  
Cad is ainm dó? - What's his name?  
Séamus is ainm dó. - His name is Séamus.

The song is Slán Le Máigh: www. youtube watch?v=6ooFHRI5U8w


	28. Bloated

The stays seemed infinitely tighter after experiencing the freedom of the tasteful, if not entirely practical, waistcoat and breeches Tabitha discarded mournfully on her bed. But this was only temporary, she reminded herself as she tied the laces and reached for her petticoat. Soon enough, she would be free from this cesspool of a city and back on the road, clad in linen and wool.

But for how long? Miss Adams would almost certainly be unable to leave the city at a moment's notice, and though she hadn't shown it the night before, Tabitha was every bit as desperate to leave for Morristown as Charlotte had been. Thoughts of what fate had befallen Caleb and Ben had been with her since she first lost sight of them, and her only hope for answers lay in His Excellency's headquarters. Whether or not her Captain and Lieutenant were there, safe, with the rest of the men was anyone's guess.

Once she'd deemed herself presentable and ready to face the inscrutable Mr. Townsend, Tabitha gathered what few belongings she had and made her way downstairs for what was likely to be her last hot meal for the next week. Townsend spared her only the briefest of glances as she sat, alone, at a table near the window. She ate her meal in silence, mind wandering to the simplest of things as her eyes followed the specks of dust floating through the air, illuminated by the morning sun as it filtered through the coloured glass.

Meal finished and settling warm and heavy in the pit of her stomach, Tabitha finally approached Townsend, who held her gaze in the same unnaturally calm manner he had when she first entered the boarding house. "I believe this will cover my bill," she said, passing him a few coins from her pocket. "I've left a few items in my room. I have no further use for them. Perhaps you know of someone who would."

He said nothing at first, and Tabitha had half-turned to leave when he finally spoke, "Safe travels, Miss McKenna."

"Thank you, Mr. Townsend." With nothing further to add, Tabitha left the comfort of the boarding house, easing the door shut softly behind her.

The route to Lady Brightlea's estate was quickly becoming familiar to Tabitha, and she made the journey in what felt like record time. Her excuse for visiting was much easier to concoct this time around—a simple desire to thank Jonathan for his tip the day before as to where she might find employment. However, if all went well, she wouldn't need to voice that excuse to anyone.

She quickly caught the eye of the young woman gazing out the window—Sukey was her name, if memory served. The woman frowned for a moment, then, clearly recognizing Tabitha, tilted her head to the left, and walked away. The yard was to her left, Tabitha realized after a moment's confusion, and she quickly set off for the gate.

Sukey was waiting for her.

Their encounter was brief, thankfully, as neither woman was eager to remain in the other's company for longer than absolutely necessary, likely due in equal parts to the chill and the possibility of being seen in Tabitha's company on Sukey's part. Tabitha had no such qualms, however, and her eagerness to depart had everything to do with her humiliating discovery the previous night. Once all relevant details had been conveyed, they parted ways—Sukey returning to the warmth of the house, and Tabitha heading for the chill of the docks.

Fortunately, the ferryman from before was nowhere to be seen, and after paying her fare, Tabitha boarded alongside a noticeably more pleasant-smelling group of people than the ones she'd been forced to travel with previously. Perhaps it was the recent snowfall, but she couldn't help noticing the infinitely cleaner feel of the breeze dancing across her nose and cheeks. Cold, biting, and stinging her eyes, it left her with an odd feeling of serenity, as though solidifying the fact that she was leaving the stench and filth of York City behind her.

The short trip was passed mostly in silence, aside from the occasional disgruntled mutterings about the morning chill. As the ferry drew closer to the shore, Tabitha risked a glance toward the snow-capped rock formation where her possessions—and, likely, a severely bloated Redcoat corpse—were hidden. The area lay undisturbed, from what she could see, without so much as a footprint evident in the fresh snow.

Once the ferry was securely docked, Tabitha looked back toward the stones at the water's edge, brows furrowed in contemplation. Retrieving her items at the present would be risky, but once she retrieved Arsehole from the stablemaster, it would be near impossible to approach the shoreline unnoticed. Fortunately, her travelling companions seemed quite eager for relief from the January chill, and hardly spared a moment's notice for the shabbily-dressed girl inching toward the small copse of trees to their left.

As soon as she was certain no wandering eyes could catch sight of her, Tabitha darted from the treeline and made her way toward the rock formation, keeping as low to the ground as she could manage without stumbling. The long shadows cast by the rising winter sun offered her no small amount of camouflage, the dark fabric of her petticoats no longer contrasting so sharply with the brilliant white of the snow, and as she ducked behind the rocks, cold air biting at her lungs, she realized her footprints were noticeably obscured as well. A passerby would need to know what he was looking for in order to detect them.

Out of sheer curiosity, she peered over the icy stones and into the water. Looking back at her was the bloated, unnaturally pale face of the Redcoat she'd encountered days before, still half-submerged in the frigid water of the harbor. She wondered briefly why his body had remained in its original resting place, and not swept out to sea, but then noted the ice crystals creeping up over his extremities and the left side of his bloodless face. _'Not deep enough,'_ she thought distastefully, retrieving her tightly-wrapped bundle from the rocks with a soft exhale. Nothing to be done about it now. By the time his fellows managed to find his corpse, she would be long gone.

Quickly scanning the area for any more unwelcome observers, and breathing a sigh of relief when she saw none, Tabitha sprinted back the way she came, pausing for a moment in the trees out of simple wariness before making her way back to the small town at a more leisurely pace.

The innkeeper's wife seemed pleased to see her, and offered her a heartfelt congratulations at the news of her guest's newest place of employment. "You know of Lady Brightlea?" she asked, feigning interest as the woman began recalling some gossip she'd heard from someone whose name Tabitha couldn't be bothered to remember. But she smiled and nodded nonetheless, punctuating any pauses in the woman's monologue with smiles and nods and soft exclamations of curiosity. After what felt like an hour, but was likely closer to a quarter, Tabitha seized her opportunity as the woman was briefly distracted by the clattering of a fallen pot from the kitchen.

"I'm terribly sorry I've kept you from your customers for so long," she said, and continued before the woman could attempt to return to their conversation. "Lady Brightlea has allowed me to bring my horse with me, but I simply couldn't retrieve him without giving you the good news. Do you know where I might find the stablemaster?" No sooner had the woman informed Tabitha where she might find the man, another crash rang out from the kitchen, consuming her attention as she turned toward the source of the noise. Bidding her a happy New Year, Tabitha hurried out the door before she could be detained once again. 

Arsehole was every bit as unpleasant as before, but Tabitha was well beyond caring as she set off, urging the Arabian from a walk to a brisk trot. She felt the tension ease from her shoulders as the already small town gradually shrank to nothing on the horizon, and with a sharp squeeze of her thighs, Arsehole took off in a rapid canter along the empty road. But the relief was short-lived. A knot was tightening in the pit of her stomach, and her heart hammered in her chest at a speed that could rival the hoofbeats beneath her. She had time enough to retrieve Cinnamon before meeting Miss Adams on the route Sukey had divulged to her, but for what felt like the thousandth time that morning, she wondered if time had already run out for Caleb and Ben. Though Miss Adams likely thought Tabitha's assumption of the title of handler was an attempt to establish dominance—and she would not be entirely incorrect in that assumption—the potential truth in that particular claim left a bitter taste in her mouth. There was every chance that both handler and courier lay dead alongside the Delaware River. Or _in_ it, if their assailants had, in some cruel form of irony, pushed their bodies into the water as she had done with the soldier at the harbor.

The thought of Ben and Caleb's faces plastered onto the Redcoat's frosty corpse sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold air, and as though sensing his rider's unease, Arsehole broke into a full gallop.


End file.
